Welcome To The Jungle
by tlyxor1
Summary: Part 2 of 5: A lot can change in a year. At 16, Harry Potter has loved and lost, and lost again. As it happens, his second year at William McKinley High is shaping up to be as eventful as the first. OOC. Season 1 AU.
1. Part 1: Chapter 1: Ordinary Day

**Welcome to the Jungle**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Summary:** : William McKinley High, with its ups and downs and all-arounds. At 15, Harry Potter wants a girl that WMHS' social hierarchy dictates he can't have, and high school isn't all it's cracked up to be. Non-Magic HP AU, and pre-series Glee.

 **Rating:** M for language, violence, adult themes, and social issues.

 **Author:** tlyxor1.

 **Part One: 15**

 **Chapter One: Ordinary Day**

The first time he has a proper conversation with Quinn Fabray, it's in their American Literature class, and it's a good-natured debate concerning the themes within 'To Kill A Mockingbird'. The rest of their class watches avidly, their teacher mediates, and by the end of the lesson, he wonders how a girl who passionately discusses social inequality can turn around and carelessly, thoughtlessly shower their classmates in slushie.

As he proceeds through his morning, however, it's not something he dwells on. Because he's a recent transfer to the Lima school district, Harry doesn't know the girl beyond the fact that she's a cheerleader. Between school, work, and his commitment to the debating and football teams, she is, consequently, not a concern. Admittedly, she's pretty in that aloof, unattainable kind of way, but Quinn is not the only attractive girl at William McKinley High. Moreover, Harry could do without the probable scrutiny of the cheerleading coach, Sue Sylvester, who seems to have taken Quinn under her wing.

Subsequently determined to avoid the Cheerios, his resolution dies a quick, painless death in the face of third period Biology. It's another class he shares with the blonde, and before Mike Chang can join him at their usual lab desk, the cheerleader in question takes his place.

Harry blinks, bemused, offers Mike an apologetic grimace, and occupies himself with his homework. He doesn't want to talk to the girl, doesn't want to get involved in high school politics, doesn't want anything to do with any more bullies.

He has a hard enough time attempting, and mostly failing, to wrangle Puck and Finn.

Behind him, one of the guys in question, Noah Puckerman - or Puck, rather - laughs, and Harry resists the urge to ask him why the hell he's in Science II when he's made it abundantly clear that he doesn't give a shit about school. He knows, realistically, that Puck's not an idiot, but there's a huge difference between coasting through standard classes, and actually having to work hard in Geometry, Biology, and World Geography.

"Hi," Fabray greets. She's blonde and green eyed, and she is the perfect cheerleader cliche.

"Hi," Harry echoes, "Quinn, isn't it?"

"Yeah," she confirms, "And you're Harry, right? The quarterback?"

Harry nods, smiling wryly. "That's me."

It's funny how his position on the football team suddenly defines him. It doesn't matter that he's also a member of the debating team, or that he's in three advanced classes. To almost everyone, he is simply 'The Quarterback', and everything else is beneath their notice.

"You don't like it?" Quinn asks.

"I like it just fine," Harry answers, "I just get asked that a lot. It's exhausting."

He is sometimes approached in the grocery store by locals, curious about the new William McKinley quarterback, interested to know his thoughts on the team and the season, to gauge whether or not he's competent and the like. It's nerve-racking, and he could do without the extra pressure. He's already under enough as is.

The fact is, Harry's a better wide receiver than he is a quarterback, but he has a consistent, reliable, and accurate throwing arm, which is apparently more than Coach Tanaka can say about any of the other QB hopefuls.

That said, even three games into the season, he's still terrified that he won't live up to everyone's lofty expectations..

In all, it's a far cry from what he's accustomed to. He's lived the last ten years of his life in Chicago, where he was another face in an overcrowded, underfunded inner-city middle school. He'd been on the football team, yes, but it wasn't a huge deal, and Harry's still adjusting to the change.

Beside him, Quinn appears unsurprised. Her expression hasn't changed much, but a sardonic smile tugs at the corners of her mouth, and her ponytail swishes with the tilt of her head. "Football's a big deal around here."

"I've noticed," Harry answers, tone bland.

Their stilted small talk falls to the wayside when their teacher arrives. She returns their in-class quiz results, goes through the homework with them, and proceeds with that day's lecture. She's a fast-paced educator, with steel grey hair and an apparent zeal for her subject a number of his other teachers lack. She's also got a deadpan sense of humour that makes him laugh, and the long-suffering tolerance of teenagers most high school educators acquire at some point between their 5th and 10th year of teaching.

That said, he still doesn't love Biology, but Harry's not sure that will ever change.

To further reinforce this thought, Harry has, over the last two weeks, sat through an extensive education on the human reproductive system, complete with video, diagrams, and PUck's obligatory commentary.

Suffice to say, he's glad to move on from the topic. He's also glad to see that he's received 92 per cent on the corresponding quiz, but he doesn't get much of an opportunity to relish in the fact before he's occupied by note-taking.

.

Eventually, the class draws to a close, and Harry packs away his things to leave the room. Puck falls into step beside him, and Mike meets them at the door.

Ahead of him, Quinn meets up with one of her fellow cheerleaders, Santana Lopez, and they both glance back at the three football players before they disappear among the crowds. They take their contemplative expressions with them, and Harry is not grieved to see them go.

"What was all that?" Mike asks, perplexed. Harry shrugs, just as clueless.

Beside them, Puck scoffs, and answers sagely, "Chicks, man. Who the hell knows what they're ever on about."

"Touché," Mike concedes.

"You make them sound like an alien species," Harry observes.

"They might as well be," Puck answers.

He and Mike laugh, but there's a hall monitor eyeballing them for loitering, so they disperse to their respective lockers. He and Puck's are fairly close together, separated by a self-proclaimed thespian by the name of Alison Prescott, but the girl is never there when they are, and Harry has started to wonder whether or not he should be concerned by the fact that her locker is starting to smell like something died inside of it.

"What've you got next?" Puck asks.

"Modern History," Harry answers, unenthused. It's perhaps his least favourite subject, up there with the Critical Thinking and Health electives his parents have made him take, "Japanese after. You?"

"I've got English and Study Hall."

Due to the domineering influence of his extraordinarily traditional grandparents, and also due to the fact he was raised in Marseille until he was 12, Puck is fluent in Hebrew, French, and German, written and spoken alike. He has subsequently tested out of his Foreign Language requirements for the duration of high school, and although he has a hard time in English, he gets to enjoy the hospitality of Study Hall while the rest of their grade - with the exception of Santana Lopez, Rachel Berry, and a few others - endure Spanish, French, or Japanese.

"Lucky bastard," Harry grouses, "I asked my parents if I could test out of French, and they laughed at me."

Predictably, Puck laughs, and Harry tries not to sulk. After all, it's not that his parents think he is incapable of passing. He's multi-lingual the same way Puck is, though he speaks Welsh and Italian in lieu of Hebrew and German, and French is probably the only other language his written comprehension is at all on par with it's spoken counterpart.

. The thing is, his parents are the hard-working types, and they're also very firm believers in the expansion of their children's horizons. Therefore, they would never let him pass up the opportunity to learn a new language, and consequently, Harry's stuck in a class he would rather do without.

With an inaudible sigh, he switches out his binders and textbooks, demolishes one of his granola bars, and fills his water bottle in the 10 minutes he has before his next class. As he does so, he chats idly with Puck about school, about the homecoming game in two weeks, about his weekend plans, and before long, the warning bell is a shrill echo in his ears, and Harry has to run for class.

In the emptying hallway, all he can hear is Noah Puckerman's echoing laugh.

During sixth period, while his teammates attend classes like auto-shop and wood-shop and what the fuck ever else, Harry attends Art with a teacher by the name of Celeste Rider. He receives a great deal of flack for it from the other footballers, but it's more or less his favourite subject, and he's not going to transfer because the guys think it's gay, or lame, or because it doesn't fit the jock stereotype that seems to govern the rest of them.

Perhaps predictably, Harry is the only jock in the class. There's a Cheerio in the class too, a blonde space case by the name of Brittany Pierce, who has a tendency to ramble nonsensically during their practical lessons, but who is also extraordinarily gifted with charcoals. They're given a wide berth by most of the other art students, but between their eccentric teacher's theory lessons and the thrice-weekly opportunity to draw to his heart's content, Harry doesn't mind much.

That said, he is intrigued by the only girl who doesn't avoid either of them like the plague. She's the silent artist type, ironically, with hair so fair as to be mistaken as white, and he's never heard her say a word. Harry's not sure if it's because she's a functional mute, or because she's cripplingly shy, or if it's because she simply doesn't give a shit about anyone else in the class to put in the effort, but he often finds himself watching her, and when she notices, when she catches his gaze with eyes a bright, striking shade of blue, it's embarrassing, and Harry looks away with a red face.

"SHe's pretty," Brittany says.

"Yeah," Harry agrees, and he's sure the tips of his ears are on fire, "She is."

Blessedly, Brittany doesn't say anything else regarding Daphne Greengrass, and instead babbles inanely about penguins and lobsters and whales, and her crazy cat, Lord Tubbington. All the while, she draws a unicorn in her sketchbook, remarkably detailed and somehow tragic in shades of black and grey.

Beside her, Harry draws a stag and a doe in an idyllic, tree-lined meadow. He hasn't shaded yet, has only sketched an outline of a completed piece, but as he leaves the class, he's content, and eager for his last class of the day,Health, to be over.

It drags, naturally, because part of the semester's curriculum is focused around sexual safety, and Puck, the nymphomaniac in training, has a lot of questions he won't ask his mom. Questions like whether or not 'pulling out' is a reliable form of birth control, and if STD's can be contracted through oral sex, and how many orgasms is too many for one day. It's mortifying and vaguely horrifying, and Harry's sure their teacher is traumatised for life, but at the end of the day, they're all a little - or a lot - more informed, and that's not something anyone should really complain about.

"I think I'll sell copies," Mike ponders. He'd taken extensive notes in class, complete with rudimentary diagrams, Puck's questions, and the teacher's answers. It all adds up to four pages, and Harry can't fathom how they covered so much material in 45 minutes. "I mean, people need to know this stuff, right? If not because it's important, then just because we'll be graded on it, y'know?"

"Might as well sell homework answers while you're at it," Puck blithely replies.

To Harry and Matt's consternation, Mike seems to genuinely consider it.

"That's a slippery slope, dude," Matt warns, "Next you'll be writing up peoples' essay papers, and before you know it, you're a master class forger with the FBI up your ass. Should probably stick to your day job."

"Besides," Harry contributes, "If they weren't paying attention, then it's they're own fault if something happens."

"I don't know," Mike hesitates, "I mean, not everyone's taking Health, right? It's an optional elective."

"That's true," Matt concedes, "I just don't think it'd work, dude. Most people aren't interested in the details. They just want to get laid."

Before Puck can weigh in with something undoubtedly vulgar, they reach the locker rooms, where most of the football team have already gathered. It's a loud, chaotic mess, and Finn Hudson is blasting Kanye West from a set of portable speakers, but Harry reaches his locker without issue, and proceeds to change into his training gear. With the knowledge that Coach Tanaka is sure to run them hard that afternoon - as he always does - it's sure to be a long couple of hours.

He sighs, tucks his helmet under his arm - it's a full gear session - and follows his friends onto the football field. Behind him, Dave Karofsky and Azimio Adams exaggeratedly mock another of their classmates, and nothing will ever change.

As Coach Tanaka barks at them to start their warm-up laps, Harry wonders why he continues to hope otherwise.


	2. Part 1: Chapter 2: Home

**Welcome To The Jungle**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter, or Glee. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Part One: 15**

 **Chapter Two: Home**

When practise is over, Harry makes his way to the student parking lot. He wreaks of Axe because some dumbass in the locker room thought it would be hilarious to spray an excess of Africa all over the place, but he's clean, dressed comfortably in a pair of his WMHS sweats, a V-neck tee, and his Titans pullover. He's tired, worn out from the long day and the arduous training session, and it's a relief to find that his father is already there.

James Potter, at 45, is as tall and sturdy as he's ever been, with sable hair cropped close to his scalp,and hazel eyes framed by rectangular, silver-framed glasses. He's still dressed in his work clothes, sans necktie and suit jacket, and he briefly turns away from his conversation with another parent to acknowledge Harry's approach.

"How are you going, kiddo? Good practise?"

"Yeah, it went well," Harry answers, glancing curiously at the stranger his father seems to know. The man is broad and sturdy, with blonde hair going grey at the temples, with age lines around his blue eyes, and Harry waits patiently for introductions.

"Ah, sorry. Russell Fabray, this is my son, Harry. Harry, Mr Fabray is a colleague of mine. It turns out his daughter is in your grade."

"Pleased to meet you, sir," Harry shakes the man's hand, "Quinn seems like a very bright girl."

"She is," Mr Fabray beams, abundantly proud, "She wants to attend Yale."

Harry's a little thrown by the revelation. He's 15 years old, and most days, he can't decide what cereal to eat in the morning. He's barely even thought about college, never mind what he wants to study, and where. It's a far, distant prospect, to be stressed over in Junior Year, alongside SAT's and prom and the constant questions about what he wants to do when he grows up.

"That's ambitious," he says, for lack of anything else to say.

Mr Fabray laughs as though it's the funniest thing he's ever heard. "SHe's an ambitious girl. Always has been."

"It's a good trait to have," James opines.

"That it is," Mr Fabray agrees, "Can't get anywhere without it."

Their conversation continues, about children and work and the property market, and Harry tunes them out with an inaudible exhale. He's sore, he's hungry, and all he really wants is to return home, to demolish whatever meal they're having for dinner, to relax in the comfort of his own bedroom.

Subsequently, time seems to drag by, and it almost feels as though an hour has passed when Quinn finally joins them. .

Apparently, Coach Sylvester kept them late. Again.

Quinn is introduced to Harry's father, who is quickly charmed by the pretty, witty blonde. She uses the same facade with their teachers, a polite, considerate, virtuous young lady. Harry would be in awe of her ability to wrap his father, a retired SAS soldier and a former officer of MI5, around her finger, if he wasn't so perturbed by it.

Harry's not sure why it bothers him so much. Everyone he knows is a different person around adults, but there's something about Quinn Fabray that rubs him the wrong way, and it irks him that he can't work out _why_.

Blessedly, they don't linger much longer, and a few minutes later, Harry is slumped into the passenger seat of his father's Escalade, headed home. There's a Beatles album playing through the speakers, and outside his window, the horizon is a bright, burnished orange as the sun sets over Lima.

"How was school?" James asks.

"It was school," Harry answers.

"That's enlightening," James deadpans.

"What did you want me to say?"

"How are your classes going?"

"They're fine," Harry answers, "I mean, Modern History is boring as hell, but I haven't failed anything yet."

That's not saying much, of course. It's only been a bit over a month since the year started, and there have only been a few minor assessment pieces since. He's got significant projects due in late October, but for the most part, most of his major assessment won't take place until after Thanksgiving. He generally avoids thinking about those, however.

"Yet?"

Harry shrugs, somewhat defensive. He's a good student, and he works hard in his classes, but he's not a genius. He's satisfied with a B+/A- average, and he'll never excel at everything. Japanese, in particular, makes him want to tear his hair out.

James pulls into their driveway, and glances at Harry askance. "Try not to fail anything, all right?"

Harry rolls his eyes, and answers sardonically, "I'll do my best."

The evening news is on the television, and his mother, Lily, is seated on the couch with a book in her lap. James makes a beeline for her, side-stepping the two dogs, Frodo and Sam, and the cat, Loki, to greet her with a kiss.

Harry leaves them to their reunion, bypassing the living room to descend the staircase at the end of the hall. It opens into an entertainment area, complete with a 55 inch television, assorted game consoles, and shelves upon shelves of DVD's, video games, and CD's. There's a sliding door that opens onto the back patio, but Harry's room is on the other side of the entertainment area, concealed by a dividing wall.

In theory, his room is supposed to be a guest bedroom. Because he and Kate, his sister, can't share a bathroom to save their lives, however, Harry's adopted it as his own, and thus far, it's worked well for him. He has his own space, easy access to the video games and an even easier way to sneak out of the house, and best yet, it's far away from any thirteen year old girls his sister brings home with her.

With a brief detour to deposit his dirty clothes in the laundry at the end of the hall, Harry makes his way to his bedroom, drops his things by the door, and flops gracelessly across his mattress. He should get a start on the homework he hasn't already completed, should at least help his parents with dinner, but he's mnakkered, and the last thing he wants to do is get out of bed.

Beside his head, his phone buzzes to life. It's a text message from Puck, informing him that he'd better be on Call of Duty later that night, and also that Quinn Fabray has asked for his number, via Santana Lopez, and Harry can just imagine his friend's stupid face.

Irked, because Puck has no qualms about handing out his number like candy, and also because it's Fabray and Lopez who asked for it, Harry replies with a succinct 'fuck you', and a request not to give his number to anyone else. He also offers a confirmation that he'll be online, and reluctantly pulls himself to his feet. His study desk is cluttered with books he's read, and others he is yet to start, but he has room enough for his homework, and he's made decent headway by the time his mother announces that dinner's ready.

Lily Potter's a professional pastry chef and chocolatier, but she's also taken a couple of courses in Italian and French cuisine. She also dabbles in the cuisine of other cultures, and it's fairly safe to assume that when she cooks, it's something to appreciate.

That said, it's also abundantly obvious when it's his dad who has prepared their meal. He's not a bad cook by any means, but he's not a professional either, and he doesn't generally broaden his culinary horizons beyond the basics of meat, vegetables, and a helping of carbs. Nevertheless, Harry inhales the food on his plate without complaint, goes for seconds, and listens absently to the dinner conversation as he does so.

Kate, in typical 13 year old fashion, is rhapsodising over her new favourite book series, Twilight. Their mother, who has read it, points out all the things wrong with it, from poor grammar to the unhealthy relationship between Bella and Edward, to the overused plot device that is the unrealistic love triangle. It's entertaining, but afterwards, Kate eats in mutinous, sulking silence, which inevitably makes everyone else uncomfortable.

"What about you, Harry? Are you reading anything new?"

"Nothing interesting. Just crap for school."

Between his studies, his extra-curricular activities, and his part-time job at his mother's cafe, Harry hardly has any free time of his own. As such, the only novels he's picked up since the start of term are those on the required reading list for Advanced English, and they're all littered with colour-coordinated post-it notes that identify themes, notable quotes, and significant plot points. It's not something he considers pleasure reading, but as far as his mother is concerned, it's better than nothing.

His parents spend the rest of Harry's time at the dining table in conversation about the aforementioned novels. Harry's not surprised to learn that, between them, they have already read the entirety of the required reading list, and most of the recommended list, too. James and Lily are veracious readers, and have worked hard to foster an appreciation for the written word in both of their children.

Nevertheless, he's not particularly interested in hearing their respective opinions concerning 'One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest', and if the constant eye rolls are anything to go by, neither is Kate.

He finishes his second helping of dinner as his phone buzzes in his pocket. It's a text message from an unknown number - an emoji laden 'Hi, it's Quinn. Hope you don't mind I got your number' - and Harry has no idea how he ought to reply.

He saves her contact information, slides his phone shut, and opts to delay his response with kitchen clean-up. He and his sister have an alternating schedule of chores, vacuuming and laundry and cleaning the pool and what have you, and they've both learned to stop complaining about it.

The fact is, chores guarantee less restrictions on their respective social lives. In the past, he's had to endure a month without video games, without friends over and without permission to go to anyone else's place and/or parties, and it's a month he intends never to repeat.

Moreover, Harry has no desire to give his parents any reason to renege on their deal to go halves on his first car. He's saving up for it, yes, but he's also kind of depending on their contributions to the cause. He's never had reason to spend so much money in his life, and if he's honest with himself, he cringes at the very thought of it.

That said, he wants a car too much to renege himself, and he's got roughly ten months to get used to the idea.

With the kitchen cleaned, he feeds the dogs and the cat, ensures their water bowls are filled, and then retreats to his bedroom. Sam follows him, content to flop lazily at the foot of Harry's bed.

Harry, meanwhile, produces his phone from his pocket, replies to Quinn with an affable 'Hey, no worries. Now I have yours', and returns to his homework.

Quinn doesn't reply, but between homework, and Call of Duty afterwards, Harry doesn't wait for one.


	3. Part 1: Chapter 3: Friend Like You

**Welcome to the Jungle**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter, or Glee. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Part One: 15**

 **Chapter Three: Friend Like You**

Thus far, Ron Weasley is probably Harry's closest friend at McKinley High. They share no classes and no extra-curricular activities, but they both work at Lily Potter's cafe, the Steam House, and they've bonded over unpleasant customers, closing shifts, and the manna that is the Steam House brownie. Their respective sisters are also friends, which is a special kind of hell that no one else really understands.

"Are you working today?" Ron asks. He's dressed in clothes for soccer training, and Harry needs to vamoose before he's late for work. It's Thursday afternoon, and after a day of coy glances from Quinn, and a whole lot of heckling from the entire football team, Harry is done. School, and all of its accompanying drama, can get bent.

"Always," he answers, "Closing shift."

They both grimace. The shift in question only allows for an hour and a half with customers before the doors are shut for the day. The remaining time is allocated towards clean-up and all the rest of those jobs that can't be done with customers on the premises, and although arguably better than the morning shift, it's still not what anyone prefers. Mostly because it means less tips, but it's better than nothing.

"Joy," Ron quips. "Have fun."

"I'll try."

The walk from McKinley to The Steam House isn't the longest walk Harry's ever done. It takes him about 15 minutes on a good day - 10 minutes if he uses his skateboard - which allows him just enough time to change into his uniform before he has to clock in for a three o'clock start.

Unsurprisingly, Hermione Granger is already behind the counter. She's pretty in that unassuming, girl next door kind of way, with brown hair and brown eyes, and she is probably one of the brightest people he knows. Not many people appreciate her intellect, but Harry's parents have taught him to respect, not only women, but intelligence as well, and Hermione has that in spades.

Upon sight of her, he wonders, not for the first time, how she always beats him there. SHe's in most of his seventh period classes, with the exception of Gym and Weight Lifting on Mondays and Fridays, and she's just recently turned 15. As such, driving is out of the question. Every time he asks, however, Hermione never answers.

"Better get a move on, QB," she teases, "You've got four minutes."

"Bite me, Granger."

"You couldn't handle all this, Potter."

Without time to really argue that, Harry concedes the point, and splits off to the bathrooms to change.

By the time he returns, dressed in his uniform and clocked in as well, his mother has left the back office in one of the t-shirts that distinguish her as a manager. As per usual, she is waiting to make sure he's made it there in one piece.

"How was your day?" She asks him.

"It was fine," Harry answers, "The usual.

Absently, he knots his apron behind his back. Nearby, Hermione greets a customer at the counter.

Lily rolls her eyes, simultaneously unsurprised and exasperated by his answer. He offers her an unrepentant grin, ducks behind the counter, and takes it upon himself to start preparing the waiting tea and coffee orders. Hermione occupies herself with plating up a brownie and a blueberry muffin, the pair squabble playfully as they work around each other, and their team supervisor, Penelope, offers Lily a long-suffering roll of her eyes.

Lily smiles wryly in turn, and gathers up her things to leave. Her assistant manager, Mary, is in the back office, and there are other places Lily needs to be.

"I'm off," she informs her son. "Behave."

Harry rolls his eyes. "Yes, Mum."

She offers him a condescending pat on the cheek. "Love you, baby."

Begrudgingly, he answers, "Love you too, Mum."

It's half past three, and 'Get Down On It' is filtering through the cafe's speakers. It's part of Penelope's 80's and 90's pop playlist, and in a lull between customers, Harry's jamming along behind the counter. It earns him a few bemused glances from the patrons who linger over their afternoon tea, but the Steam House is already established as a casual, trendy place, and no one's liable to take offence.

It's in the middle of the song, as Harry displays his embarrassing knowledge of old school pop songs, that Brittany, Quinn, and Santana Lopez step through the front door. As they do, Hermione mutters an uncharacteristic oath beneath her breath.

Harry doesn't like to think about it, but Hermione is an unfortunate target of the jocks' and cheerleaders' slushie facials. It drives him nuts because she's also his friend, and he hates the fact she has to endure that humiliation almost every day. Hermione has her pride though, and she's asked him not to interfere. As such, he can't do much at school, but in the Steam House, he can at least swap places with her.

She doesn't protest, and by the time the three cheerleaders are at the counter, Harry's situated behind the cash register, a polite smile on his face.

"Welcome to the Steam House," Harry greets them. "Are you ready to order, or would you like to take a look at the menu?"

Quinn runs her fingertips along the edge of the counter, and asks, "What would you recommend?"

He shrugs carelessly. "Depends on what you like. The brownie is always good."

"Can I get the raspberry muffin, Harry?" Brittany requests, "And a hot chocolate, please?"

"Sure, Brit," Harry answers. "Are you all paying individually, or…?"

After a brief conference between themselves, Brittany hands over a twenty, Harry returns it, and then stares, agog, as his spacey friend drops all her change into the tip jar.

"Brit," he protests, "That's too much."

She shrugs. "You're my friend."

And despite his efforts, she won't hear any more on the matter.

With a resigned sigh, he proceeds with Santana and Quinn's orders, offers them an order number, and directs them to sit anywhere they please. One of the waiters will deliver their food and drinks to the table when it's ready, but rather than concern himself with that, he instead helps Hermione prepare the actual food and beverages.

"I'm tempted to spit in their mochas," Hermione admits, "They're awful."

Harry frowns, deposits a couple of extra mini-marshmallows on the saucer of Brittany's hot chocolate, and answers, "I'm sorry."

Hermione's smile is sad, and tired. "It's not your fault."

"Yeah, but I feel guilty by association anyway."

It's disheartening, but with the cheerleaders' entry into the Steam House, they've brought with it he and Hermione's reality beyond the cafe's boundaries. He almost resents them for it, begrudges them for their unwelcome intrusion into he and his friend's safe haven away from the bullies, the peer pressure, the expectations that dog their footsteps in William McKinley High. It's irrational, because the separation between work and school couldn't last forever, but God, he wishes it could.

"You know she wants you, right?" Hermione says a few minutes later. She occupies herself with cleaning the coffee machines, and Harry glances up from where he's wiping down the counter.

"What?"

Hermione rolls her eyes, and with her voice high pitched and nasally, she mimics,, "'What would you recommend?' She wants you, stupid."

"She doesn't even know me," Harry protests.

"Harry, you're good looking, your smart, your QB. You're a nice guy, too, so of course she wants you. Almost every girl in our grade does to one degree or another."

He thinks, briefly, of Daphne Greengrass, and he wonders if she's one of them. He kind of hopes she is.

"It doesn't matter," he insists, and his face is burning, "I wouldn't date someone who thinks it's acceptable to pick on people just because they have interests that don't fit into their perfect, plastic life. Fuck that."

Hermione's expression softens marginally. "Maybe you shouldn't judge her by her actions in school. People do stupid things to fit in."

Harry stares at her, expression flat. "Are you seriously encouraging me to date a girl who treats you like you're something inferior because you're not a Cheerio?"

"I'm suggesting you keep your options open," Hermione insists, "You never know, she might be a decent human being under all that mean."

He thinks of the debate he'd had with Quinn in their English class the day prior, of her well-reasoned arguments and her justifications therein, and concedes that, if nothing else, she's not an idiot.

"I mean, if you can be friends with Puck and Hudson, who are arguably as bad as Quinn Fabray and Santana Lopez, you could at least give her a chance, right? Otherwise, that's double standards."

He grimaces, unable to argue that point. The thing is, Puck and Finn already know Harry thinks all the dumpster tosses and the pee ballooning and everything else is bullshit, but as a fellow freshman, he doesn't have the authority to stop them. Moreover, if he tried, the upperclassmen on the football team would likely beat him to a bloody pulp, or at the very least, lock him in one of the portable toilets alongside the likes of Kurt Hummel and Jacob Ben-Israel, and that, frankly, is something Harry can't deal with.

"You're far too decent for this hellhole," he tells her. It's probably one of the most honest things he's ever said.

Hermione's smile is wry. "Yeah, you too."

Penelope appears beside them, her expression unimpressed. "As heartwarming as this conversation is, you two need to quit gabbing and start working."

Penelope's 20 years old, a former WMHS student herself, and a sophomore at Ohio State University's Lima campus. She works part-time to help pay her bills and the like, but she's got a full-ride scholarship to study Science, and that pays for most of her room and board.

The unfortunate truth is that she'd started out at OSU Cincinnati, but a family tragedy brought her back to Lima halfway through her freshman year, and she's not yet prepared to leave. It's left her somewhat jaded, but Harry likes her well enough anyway.,

He offers her a lazy salute. "Aye aye, Captain."

"Oh, and Hermione?"

"Yeah?"

"Don't worry about the cheery-hoes," Penelope advises, "When you're kicking ass at Stanford, or Brown, or where the hell ever, they'll be stuck in this dump, with kids they never wanted and husbands who will never appreciate them."

Hermione laughs, heartened by the older girl's words. "Thanks, Penny."

"No problem, Hermione. Now - get to work you two."

As Harry acquiesces, he ponders the concept of double standards, and he hates that Hermione is right.

Then again, he supposes, he ought to be used to it by now.


	4. Part 1: Chapter 4: Oh, What A Night

**Welcome to the Jungle**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter, or Glee. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Part One: 15**

 **Chapter Four: Oh, What A night**

Because they're a relatively young team, with an offensive lineup made up predominantly of freshman, no one really expects the McKinley Titans to qualify for playoffs. Coach Tanaka's resigned himself to a year of conditioning and growth spurts and team bonding, and Harry is completely fine with that. It gives him time to familiarise himself with the QB position, to improve his throws and whatnot, and it also allows his fellow team members to adapt to a QB that they, in turn, are not familiar with.

The state of things takes a lot of the pressure off Harry, but a lot of people still watch, still analyse and critique, still focus a lot of attention on the Titans' quarterback, but the weight is a lot easier to bear with the knowledge that he doesn't need to be his best. He just needs to _improve_ , just needs to adapt to an entirely new team, and it's nice not to be thrown directly into the deep end of an entire community's hopes and dreams.

In saying all of that, it's exceedingly gratifying when they win that Friday's game against Carmel High. Admittedly, the other school's football team is abysmal, but the win is no less satisfying for it, and at Ethan Summerby's place, everyone's in high spirits.

Because they'd opted to stop for dinner beforehand, Harry and Ron arrive relatively later than everyone else. By the time they do, the house is crawling with their classmates, buoyant with that night's dual victory (soccer and football) against Carmel High.

Beside him, Ron watches, wary. He has only attended the soccer parties, and they are significantly more low-key than the keggers thrown by the football team. As such, the redhead is a little thrown by the shear number of people that have managed to cram themselves into the home in front of them.

"You all right there, Ron?"

"Why wouldn't I be?" Ron asks.

Harry shrugs. "Just checking, mate."

Behind them, Fred leans out of the driver's seat window of the car he and George share. It's an old Ford Anglia that's certainly seen better days, but the twins more or less worship it, and Harry's certainly not going to say anything.

"Just call one of us when you guys want to be picked up, all right?"

"Yeah, all right," Ron answers, pivoting on his heel to have a proper conversation with them. Harry follows suit. "Thanks, Fred, George."

"Yeah," Harry echoes, "I owe you guys one."

Fred and George are Ron's older twin brothers. They're juniors, part of the defence line-up on the soccer team, and they have no interest in attending any more high school parties. Apparently, they lose their appeal after a while. As such, the twins have other plans, but Harry hadn't pried and neither of them had thought to share.

"No problem, dude," George says. He's lifted his upper body through the passenger side window, propped against the door with his arms crossed over the roof of the car, "Have fun."

"Thanks," Harry answers.

"Don't do anything stupid," Fred adds, "Mom will blow a gasket if you get arrested, Ron."

"Or hospitalised," George contributes lightly. "Seriously, don't screw up."

"I won't," Ron assures them, "I probably won't even stay long."

"Also, if you're going to hook up-"

"I got it!" Ron shouts, and his entire face is bright red. Even his ears.

"In that case, smell you later, dudes."

George drops back into his seat, they crank up their windows, and pull away from the curb. Ron and Harry watch them until the car disappears around a corner. Behind them, Lady Gaga's 'Just Dance' blasts from the surround sound speakers inside Summerby's home.

Harry combs a hand through his hair, rolls back his shoulders, and makes his way to the door. Ron falls into step beside him, his hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans, and their presence is noticed at once.

"About time you showed up, asshole," Dean Thomas greets his teammate, "We were going to send out a search party."

"We stopped for dinner," Ron explains.

"Probably smart," Dean acknowledges, glances at Harry, and raises his bottle of beer, "Good game, dude."

"Likewise," Harry answers, looks around briefly, and asks, "Where can we get some drinks around here?"

"The kitchen. Where else?"

The kitchen is crowded, mostly by athletes. The soccer team captain, Cedric Diggory, is taking body shots off his girlfriend, Cho Chang, and someone's started up beer pong at the dining table. Most surprisingly, however, is the sight of Hermione settled contentedly in Viktor Krum's arms. She's not dressed in the unflattering clothes she favours in school, but instead, a pair of skin-tight black jeans, and a cherry red camisole that clings to her figure. She looks very nice, actually, her hair artfully tamed and curled, her face accented by the slightest amount of makeup, and others have noticed.

"Did you know about that?" Harry asks.

"No," Ron answers, "Viktor's pretty private. Doesn't talk much."

"He has a hard time with English, doesn't he?"

Ron shrugs, nonchalant, and helps himself to an unopened bottle of water. "He gets by."

Viktor's a transfer student from Bulgaria. He's been at McKinley High for a little over a year, and according to Ron, he's the best striker the soccer team has. There are rumours about professional teams and college scouts, though they're all unconfirmed. Among all the speculation, however, no one has thought to ask Krum to provide the facts.

"Should we be concerned?" Harry asks, "He's a senior."

"His birthday's in August, so there's - what? - two years between them? That's not a big deal, I don't think. Besides, Hermione's a big girl. She can handle herself."

Harry concedes to Ron's reasoning, mostly because he doesn't ever want to face Hermione Granger's wrath. She's all about women's rights and female empowerment, and if Harry ever implies, through word or deed, that she can't handle herself, he'd likely be faced with a world of hurt.

Hermione catches sight of them, disentangles herself from Krum's arms, and approaches with a grin.

"You made it!" She hugs them both, "Congratulations, guys. You both did good."

"Thanks, Hermione," Ron answers, a small, fond grin on his face.

Harry echoes Ron's acknowledgement, and adds, "You look fantastic. Trying to impress someone, are you?"

She rolls her eyes. "Hardly. Viktor was interested long before he saw me all dolled up like this."

The girl drags them over to her boyfriend, and after the congratulations are passed around, they chat idly about weekend plans and classes, and whether or not McDonald's is better than Burger King. It's cool, because there are no airs, and Viktor apparently doesn't give a shit about the fact he's in the company of underclassmen. It's nice, simply hanging out and shooting the breeze, and it doesn't matter that Viktor is the only one of them who is at all intoxicated. They're all having a good time, and it's all that really matters.

Naturally, it doesn't last.

The thing about high school parties, and particularly those with alcohol, is that something inevitably goes wrong. Either something's broken, or the police are called, or someone's imbibed to the point of alcohol poisoning. It's par for the course where teenagers are concerned, because none of them care to drink safely, or even know how to.

His parents, who are neither deaf, dumb, nor blind, have reiterated this time and time again since Harry was 13 years old. Moreover, he's been to a fair few parties already, and he's almost begun to expect trouble.

That said, he doesn't expect it to be his friends involved. Puck, with his Western European upbringing, knows he doesn't need to get obliterated to have a good time. Mike and Matt are actually pretty responsible, and Finn is too much of a chickenshit to let himself get wasted.

As such, when Mike finds him, Harry offers his friend a fist bump, heedless of the drama outside.

"What's up?"

"Dude, it was fucked up, but Brit's passed out and Santana won't stop crying, and we're pretty sure Puck's got a concussion."

Harry frowns, concerned. "What happened?"

Mike leads Harry out onto the front porch, and Hermione, Ron, and Viktor follow. It's quieter there, less of a struggle to communicate, and Mike delves into the retelling without hesitation.

Apparently, Brit passed out in the living room, but Quinn was sitting with her, so it was all good. But then a couple of upperclassmen insisted on taking her upstairs, and Quinn, who thought it would be better for her away from the chaos, did not protest. She followed them though, and started to worry when the two guys didn't return to the hall. She called Santana, who was with Puck, and they found Brittany with her clothes off, unconscious, and with the two guys arguing about who would have her first.

"That's sick," Hermione says.

Harry agrees, but he is also incredulous because, seriously, do these things actually happen in real life? It sounds like something out of a soap opera, but it's certainly not something Mike would lie about.

"Puck beat the shit out of them," Mike continues soberly, "Quinn texted us, and we pulled him off them. I don't know how he managed both of them on his own, though I'm pretty sure Santana helped. Anyway, Quinn and Santana got Brit dressed, and we got her and Puck out of there, but we don't know what to do with them."

"Christ," Harry mutters. He cards both his hands through his hair, "Where are they?"

"Couple houses down," Mike answers. He thumbs over his shoulder in the direction in question. "Puck said to let you know what was going on."

"Right," Harry acknowledges, "I'll go back with you, then."

He shares a brief exchange with Ron, who doesn't begrudge Harry the change of plans. With his Saturday morning training session cancelled in the wake of that night's win, he was supposed to crash at The Burrow, but with everything he's just heard, those plans are more or less thrown out the window.

"Just go," Hermione insists, "Take care of your friends. We'll be all right here."

Ron nods his agreement. "Call us if there's anything we can do to help."

Harry nods, bids them a good night, and walks alongside Mike in silence. As he does, he checks his phone, concerned to find a number of text messages and missed calls awaiting him. He notes, absently, that his phone is also on silent, the vibration off, and it's no wonder why he hadn't received any of them in time to help properly.

He'll make sure it never happens again.

When they reached their huddled group of friends, Santana is still crying, that ugly, drunk kind of cry that never seems to end. Her makeup is smudged around her eyes, and she wipes roughly at her running nose, and it is, unequivocally, the most ruffled he's ever seen the hispanic Cheerio.

Brittany's beside her, conscious but insensate, impossibly small in her rumpled clothes and someone's coat. She rests her head in Santana's lap, and Quinn watches over them with a sharp, sober gaze..

A little further away from them, Puck sits on the curb, his head in his hands. Finn and Matt bridge the gap between Puck and the girls, and barring Santana's sobs and Brittany's slurred mumbles, none of them make a sound.

Harry looks at each of them, changed unequivocally by what they've just experienced, and there is nothing he can possibly say that will make it better.

He doesn't even try.


	5. Part 1: Chapter 5: Little Talks

**Welcome To The Jungle**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter, or Glee. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Part One: 15**

 **Chapter Five: Little Talks**

Unsure of what else to do, he calls his dad. The others bitch about it, but the fact is, Puck may need a doctor, and if nothing else, James Potter can actually drive. None of them can claim the same, and quite frankly, Harry just wants to go home and pretend this night hasn't happened.

His dad pulls up in the Escalade, his mom behind him in the Mazda 6, and they both hand out water bottles on their approach.

"How you feeling, Puck?" James asks, crouched in front of the boy in question.

"Like shit," Puck answers, and it's a testament to the pain he's in that he doesn't bother pretending otherwise.

Meanwhile, Harry's mum is consoling Santana, who still hasn't stopped crying. Brittany's fallen asleep, and Quinn is fiddling with the other blonde's hair. She looks like she's on the verge of tears herself, and Harry drops onto the curb beside her, lost for words.

"I can't believe they did that," Quinn says, "I mean, why would they do that?"

"Some people are just bastards, I guess." He shrugs, unable to offer her a decent answer. "You know you did good tonight? Following up, making sure she was okay, calling for help. Brit's okay because of you."

Quinn's lips pull into a grimace, one of those subconscious kinds. She's holding back tears. "Pucks not, though."

"He will be," Harry answers, "Doofus probably thinks it's worth it."

As Harry speaks, his dad rises from where he is crouched in front of the teen in question, shuts off the torch on his phone, and helps Puck to his feet. Mike, Matt, and Finn clamber up after them, Quinn and Harry follow suit, and his parents negotiate what to do next.

Eventually, James addresses the group. "You're all welcome to crash at our place tonight, but if you'd rather not, Lily and I are happy to drop you home."

"San and Brit were supposed to be staying at mine, but my dad would blow a gasket if they showed up like…" Quinn gestures vaguely, but they all get the drift anyway.

"All right, so that's three. Anyone else?"

The others accept the offer to crash as well, and there's a few confused moments where everyone works out who's going in which car. Eventually, however, things get sorted, Brittany is helped into the Mazda, and they're all on their way to Casa Potter without any more incidents.

It's not until his dad pulls into the driveway that Harry remembers, belatedly, that Kate's got a handful of her friends over for the weekend. He suppresses the reflex to groan his displeasure, and instead helps a belligerent Puck out of the car.

"Nice digs," Matt offers.

"It's home," Harry absently replies.

They shuffle inside, and Harry leads the way into the living room. As he does so, he can't say he's particularly surprised to find a bunch of middle school aged girls sprawled out in the living room, in their pyjamas, a romantic comedy paused on the flat screen.

"What are you doing here?" Kate asks, "What happened?"

"I live here, and it's none of your business."

Kate huffs and rolls her eyes, but she doesn't bother arguing. Instead, she presses play on '27 Dresses', and turns the volume up.

Regardless, the film doesn't dissipate the awkwardness that is practically palpable, so it's a relief when the girls arrive with his mum, who seems to have stopped at Wal-Mart on her way home. She shows Quinn, Brittany (who is blessedly conscious), and Santana into the room they'll be sharing across the hall from Katherine's room, and then sends them all downstairs to enjoy the rest of their night - or at least attempt to - with soft drinks and snacks in hand.

Puck collapses on the couch in the rumpus room, and the others follow suit around him. Brittany curls up against his side, Santana on her other side, and Harry plugs his iPod into the sound system.

Death Cab for CUtie filters from the speakers, but none of them have anything to say, so 'Bixby Canyon Bridge' plays on.

Eventually, Puck breaks the silence in his usual, tactless way, and Harry's almost grateful.

"So that was fucked up."

"Tell me about it," Matt agrees.

"I still can't believe it even happened," Quinn admits, "This is _Lima_. _Nothing_ happens here."

The music continues to play, Maroon 5 and Killing Heidi and whoever else is on his iPod, but over drinks, chips, and chocolate, they talk it out. It's uncharacteristic and sometimes awkward, but between Santana's blossoming anger, Brittany's tears, and the vague sense of disbelief that still rocks them all, it's somehow cathartic. He'll probably feel the guilt that he wasn't there to help for a long time to come, but through it all, there develops an unspoken understanding that they'll each have each other's backs in times of crisis - sober and intoxicated alike - and Harry can't say he regrets that.

Eventually, Puck shuffles into the last available guest room Harry's assured is his for the taking, Santana and Brit make their way upstairs, and Mike and Matt fall asleep on the couch. Finn's already passed out on the floor, which leaves he and Quinn the last two standing, and again, Harry has no idea what to say.

It seems to be a frequent state for him, at least where Quinn Fabray is concerned.

If he's honest with himself, it's probably why he's so discomforted by her.

"You know, your parents are pretty awesome," Quinn says.

They're out on the back patio, slouched side by side on one of the wicker couches there. He's sparked a couple of candles for illumination, but mostly, it's dark out, and the stars are bright in the sky. He can see more of them out here, in Lima, than he'd ever been able to see in Chicago, and the novelty still leaves him awed.

"Yeah, I know," Harry answers, "It's easy to forget, sometimes, but then nights like this happen, and they're just there, you know - no questions asked - and I remember that, actually, my parents are pretty bloody fantastic."

"Your family seems pretty close. There are a lot of photos." She sounds almost wistful, and Harry's not sure if he ought to pry.

"Close enough," He confirms, "Katie makes me crazy sometimes, but I guess that's par for the course with little sisters."

Quinn laughs. "Siblings in general, I think."

They talk about their respective siblings, which naturally segues to friends and hobbies. It's nice to talk to her without the rigours of school or peer pressure, and before he knows it, it's almost three o'clock in the morning, and they're both exhausted.

"I guess we should go to bed," she sighs.

"I could use some sleep."

They exchange goodnights, which is vaguely awkward, and Harry walks her to the stairs. She ascends up them in the dark, and Harry retreats into his bedroom. He discards his jeans and T-shirt for a pair of flannel trousers and nothing else, collapses into bed with a grateful sigh, and is asleep almost as soon as his head hits the pillow.

It's been a long, tiring day, and he's glad it's finally over.

-!- -#-

He wakes around mid-morning to a breakfast of eggs, bacon, and an abundance of toast, to hungover friends and a bruised, battered Puck, and to word that his father, James, has left to drop off Kate's friends at their respective homes.

"How did everyone sleep last night?" Lily asks.

"Well enough," Harry answers. He doesn't mention that he'd woken to a couple of nightmares, but no one else does, either. Instead, they're all predictably polite, on their best behaviour and what have you, and his mum doesn't pry any further.

Instead, she leaves them to their meal, and retreats upstairs with Frodo and Sam in tow.

"You know, I never realised your family's British," Mike says.

"What gave it away?" Harry asks, affecting his father's accent. It hasn't diminished in the years since their move from London, and Harry takes ridiculous pride in the fact he can pull it off at will.

Santana chokes on her breakfast, clears her throat with a mouthful of orange juice, and declares, "That's fucking hot!"

Harry shares an amused glance with Puck, but neither of them bring up the wide receiver's heritage or upbringing. If she hears Puck speaking French, Santana's head may just explode.

Let it be known that Puck and Harry are entirely aware of the draw people have to foreign accents, cultures, and people.

Instead, the conversation transitions to places they've each visited, and Harry can't say he's particularly surprised to learn Finn has never left Ohio. Quinn has never left the United States, but she's visited a number of states along the eastern and western coasts, and she's one of the few of them who have ever been to Disneyland. Puck's been to the one in Paris, and Mike has been to Disneyland Tokyo, but Harry's never been, and given his father's aversion to crowds, he doubts he will any time soon.

Eventually, the last of the bacon, eggs, and toast is demolished, as are the sliced fruits and yoghurt, and Puck drains his coffee just in time for his mother to pull up outside.

Deborah Puckerman looks exhausted, fresh off a 12 hour shift at work, and upon sight of her son, her face crumples. She's already been informed of the events of the night prior, courtesy of a lengthy text message from James, and to Harry, it looks like the woman can't decide if she ought to be proud, heartbroken, terrified, or furious.

Either way, she cradles Puck's battered face and hugs him tight, and Harry averts his gaze, embarrassed to be witness to the scene in front of him.

From behind, Lily sidles up beside him, waits patiently for Mrs Puckerman to collect herself, and then makes an effort to reassure the woman as best she can.

As she does so, Harry glances at the others, and prays their own pick-ups - barring Brittany's - are far less emotional.

He can only hope.


	6. Part 1: Chapter 6: One Of Those Days

**Welcome To The Jungle**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter, or Glee. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Part One: 15**

 **Chapter 6: One Of Those Days**

As a general rule, Harry tries to avoid violence. His father has had him in Martial Arts training from the age of six, and perhaps the most pivotal lesson he's learned from them is that physical violence should only ever be treated as a last resort, when words and diplomacy have failed, when his safety depends on it, or that of those surrounding him.

His family's move from Chicago has brought a halt to those lessons, but a few months is not enough to diminish the martial skills Harry has obtained over the years. He's got a red belt in Taekwando, blue belts in Karate and Jujitsu, and he's earned those ranks through hours upon hours of hard work, through bruises and blood and sweat, and he is proud of them.

In saying that, it is exceedingly tempting to seek out Brittany's would-be rapists that Monday, to employ those skills he's acquired in order to teach them a lesson in consent and respect for women. The only reason he doesn't is because Puck and Santana have surely beaten them to a pulp already, and Brittany's staying hand, her open, unguarded expression, her plea to stay by her side, is impossible to refuse.

He shares a glance with Santana, drapes an arm over Brittany's shoulders, and walks her to class..

If it is the only way she can feel safe in the same halls as the assholes who had thought to take advantage of her intoxication, then come hell or high water, he'll walk her to class every day until they graduate.

Harry drops her off at her classroom, sure of her safety under the watchful, protective eyes of Santana, Puck, Matt, and Finn, and makes his way to his English class. Mike and Quinn are already there, as is Hermione, and he settles into the seat beside his fellow footballer with a sigh.

It's sure to be a long, exhausting day, and Harry's already over it.

"Is Brittany all right?" Mike asks.

Harry shrugs. "As well as she can be, I expect."

Mike nods his acknowledgement, drums his fingers on his desk, and watches silently as their teacher starts writing notes on the whiteboard. "They'll probably find it really difficult to get laid for a while."

Harry smirks despite himself. Santana, ruthless and devious, used their phones to take photos of them on Friday night, beaten bloody and with 'RAPIST' written on their foreheads in permanent marker. She also used those same phones to hack their MySpace and Facebook profiles, changed their profile photos to the afore-mentioned pictures, and then dropped them (the phones) in the toilet. It was glorious.

"What's the fall out? Do you know?"

"They were booted off the hockey team," Mike answers, "Behaviour like that - even rumours - can't be tolerated by the school. Summerby was pissed as all hell, girls are avoiding them like the plague, and their friends dropped them like hot potatoes."

"Good. It's the least they deserve, pricks."

Mike nods his agreement, their teacher calls their class to order, and Harry settles in for another discussion surrounding the themes within 'To Kill A Mockingbird'. Hermione participates this time, animated and invested as she debates with Harry, Quinn, and Rachel Berry, and before Harry knows it, their class is over, and Harry is on his way to Geometry with Mike and, pleasantly enough, Hermione.

"You never said, how long have you and Krum been going out?" Harry queries.

"Since the summer," Hermione replies, "He's actually my neighbour, so…"

"Convenient," Mike quips.

Hermione laughs, sounding vaguely sheepish, and they reach their classroom without incident. Dave Karofsky and Azimio Adams had each moved to approach, slushie cups in hand, but Mike and Harry's presence is, as it turns out, an effective deterrent. Thus, they turned their attention to another unfortunate, unsuspecting victim, and Hermione remains slushie free.

"I can't imagine Krum is particularly thrilled by the fact his girlfriend regularly gets slushied," Harry observes.

Hermione offers him a fixed smile. "He's not, but most people only tolerate him because of his soccer skills. What do you think would happen if he wasn't McKinley High's star striker?"

"He'd be treated like the rest of the international students," Mike concludes.

Mike would know exactly how they're treated, too. Not because he cops it, but because he tutors a number of those students in English, and he has therefore gotten to know them fairly well. As it happens, Mike is fluent in Mandarin and Spanish, the latter because he was raised in Puerto Rico until he was 10, but like Harry, he has to endure a Foreign Language class at the behest of parents who have high, unrelenting expectations of their only son.

"Of course," Harry acknowledges, disgruntled, "Why did I expect anything else?"

"No idea," Hermione answers, "I mean, it's Lima."

And after that, what else was there to say, really?

-!- -#-

Their lunch hour starts out fairly unremarkably. They gather in the cafeteria, purchase their sub-par meals, and make themselves comfortable in the centre of the room, which is when things take a turn for the unexpected.

Harry eats his chips mindlessly, thoughts on the rest of his day, as Puck and Finn organise a COD marathon, and as Matt attempts to talk Mike out of his most recent business venture. He is jolted out of his daze, however, when Quinn, Santana, and Brittany settle in the available seats at their table, apparently heedless of all the attention that has suddenly turned their way.

"Hey," Quinn greets, "You guys don't mind if we join you, do you?"

"Why the fuck not?" Puck shrugs. The other guys, likeminded and disinclined towards confrontation besides, offer similar sentiments, and Harry does the same.

"How's your day going?" Quinn asks. He notes, absently, that Santana and Brittany are already in conversation, and the guys have returned to their respective conversations too, and he wonders if this is how it's going to be from now on.

Harry glances up from his cardboard-style pizza, shrugs nonchalantly, and replies, "It's fine. The usual. I'm ready for it to be over. How is yours?"

"About the same. What have you got next?"

"Visual Art and Gym," Harry answers, and braces himself for the inevitable teasing that is sure to follow.

"You're an artist?" Quinn prods.

He shrugs, sure Brittany's already told her all of this, and answers, "I suppose so."

"You suppose so?" Quinn echoes.

"It seems kind of pretentious to call myself an artist," Harry explains, "I mean, yeah, I like to drawn and paint, but whatever, you know? It's not like I'm being paid for it."

Quinn hums. "I suppose that makes sense."

Harry affects a weak smile, but he doesn't really feel it. He isn't feeling much of anything, really, uninterested in the small talk with Quinn, or in any of the other conversations around him either. It's a strange state of being, but no one seems to notice how off he feels, and he's not about to bring attention to it. Instead, he endures, and he waits for this day to be over.

It can't end soon enough.


	7. Part 1: Chapter 7: Complicated

**Welcome To The Jungle**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter, or Glee. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Part One: 15**

 **Chapter 7: Complicated**

In the weeks that follow, life falls into something of a routine. The homecoming game comes and goes, and before Harry really knows it, it's nearly the end of October. He's elbows deep in assorted mid-terms, but there's always time for work, for football, for friends. Ohio's autumn is in full swing, and it brings with it a crispness to the air, a shower of autumn leaves, and an almost tangible anticipation for the holidays ahead.

Before he can enjoy the holidays, however, he has to get through all of his presentations, exams, and class projects.

"How much do you want to bet Puck will do the Reproductive System?"

"That's a sucker's bet, Q," Harry answers.

They're both in one of the school's computer labs, elbows deep in research on the Immune and the Nervous Systems, respectively, and they've spent the last half hour in silence. There's about 45 minutes left until classes start for the morning, and their projects for Biology aren't due until the week before Thanksgiving.

On top of everything else they each have to do before then, however, they don't really have the time to procrastinate. It's exhausting, the very thought of all of his upcoming commitments and deadlines, but they've produced these study sessions, and thus he can't bring himself to complain. .

Quinn huffs a laugh, presses 'skip' on her iPod, and returns her attention to the computer screen in front of her. She's dressed in the obligatory Cheerios uniform, but her hair is loose, left free to frame her pretty face, and he wonders how he can misjudge someone so extremely. She picks on their classmates, which still irritates him beyond belief, but away from school, away from the peer pressure and the expectations and the scrutiny, he's grown fond of her company. She makes him laugh, with her deadpan humour, with the rapport she's created with Santana and Brittany, with stories of their middle school hijinks.

He's not sure if he _likes_ her, because most days he still can't get Daphne Greengrass out of his head, but sometimes he wonders what it'd be like to kiss her,, to do _more_ with her, and he figures that, if nothing else, he at least finds Quinn attractive. If he's honest with himself, though, he's not sure he wants to act on it. He doesn't like the way she treats a lot of the girls in school, but that aside, she's also a loud and proud member of William McKinley High's Celibacy Club, and although Harry's a firm believer in the 'each to their own' philosophy, he's also 15 years old. He's still a virgin, if barely, and he has no intention of waiting until marriage to experience that illustrious 'home run'.

In saying that, his hesitation makes him feel like an ass. There's more to a relationship than sex, after all, more to intimacy than the physical act, and he wonders if he's selfish to want to date someone who hasn't promised her congregation, her pastor, and her God that she will not engage in sex until marriage.

He sighs, mood soured by his thoughts, and struggles to focus on his research. As he does, Quinn glances at him, concerned, and Harry forces a smile. He needs to sort this out, before it hurts them both.

-!- -#-

"What's got you all broody?" Hermione asks.

"Nothing," Harry replies, "I'm fine."

Behind them, Penelope snorts. SHe's supposed to be making coffee for one of their customers, but evidently, she's mastered the art of multi-tasking. Harry, unimpressed, scowls at her back.

"Right," Hermione answers blandly, "And I'm a Cheerio. Want to try that again, Harry?"

He sighs, long-suffering. "No?"

Hermione appears suitably unimpressed.

Harry sighs again, but relents. He looks around for his mother, first, and once he's satisfied that she's nowhere in sight, he asks, "Would you still date Krum if he took a vow of chastity?"

Penelope, behind them, scalds her hand on the steamer, and starts cursing accordingly. It's an impressive litany, and even as he and Hermione scramble for cold water and the First-Aid kit, Harry's a little awed.

Penelope bats them away, frazzled and flustered but mostly unharmed, and returns to the coffee machine. As she does so, Hermione wipes away the spilled milk, frowning.

"Is that what's really bothering you?"

Harry shrugs. "It's been on my mind."

"I guess you've got to decide what's more important to you, then," Hermione shrugs. She's about as red as Harry feels. "I mean, yeah, the physical side of a relationship is all well and good, but it's not the most important thing. And can I just say, you're a complete pig for prioritising this."

"I know." He's not sure what he's replying to, but either or, it applies. He's an ass, and he is entirely aware that there is more to relationships than getting laid.

That aside, this discussion is providing him with far more insights into Hermione and Krum's relationship than Harry ever wanted to know. He's not surprised, admittedly - Hermione's rather liberal, and Krum is 17 - but all the same, he's partway tempted to covering his ears and shutting his eyes to this entire mess.

Why had he brought it up?

"Anyway, just because she's sworn off sex, doesn't mean you can't do other things."

"That seems… rather dubious."

Hermione shrugs. "It probably is. But I digress. What I was saying before, you have to decide what's more important to you: getting off, or having a relationship with Fabray. Because if it's the former, than you have no business starting a relationship with anyone, and if it's the latter, then it shouldn't be an issue either way."

"Right," Harry acknowledges, and the arrival of a few new customers derails their conversation. It's a relief, because he never wants to relive that hell, and also because he has no desire to chance his mother overhearing it.

Harry's not sure he could survive the embarrassment. In any case, Hermione's only spelled out what he already knows, and thus the brooding continues through the afternoon, into the evening, and into the night beyond.

It only ceases when Puck texts him with word that Finn's considering asking Quinn out, and the advice that if Harry plans to make a move on Quinn, he'd better do it fast.

And because the thought of Quinn dating anyone else - least of all Finn Hudson - is plainly nauseating, Harry's choice is an easy one.


	8. Part 1: Chapter 8: I Want To Hold

**Welcome to the Jungle**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter, or Glee. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Part One: Fifteen**

 **Chapter Eight: I Want To Hold Your Hand**

They gather on the school's front lawn the following morning, Harry, Puck, Finn, Matt, Mike, Quinn, Santana, and Brittany. They've each just come from football and cheerleading training, respectively, shower damp and muscles sore, and occupied mostly by the breakfast muffins Harry's mother had taken to providing for them. They're orange and poppyseed this morning, and they're demolished as quickly as their triple chocolate-chip counterparts from two days prior.

"God, these are so good," Matt groans, "Your mom's so awesome, dude."

"I'll pass on the compliment," Harry answers, tone droll, and washes down the last of his (second) breakfast with the bottle of orange juice he'd purchased from a vending machine, "I'm sure she'll appreciate it."

"Does she make them every morning?" Santana wonders.

"I wish," Harry laughs, "She makes them the night before, and only when she knows Kate and I have training the next morning. Otherwise, we have to fend for ourselves."

Santana shrugs. "More than my mom will ever do."

Santana's mother, Carmen Lopez, is a surgeon. She's also a workaholic, which essentially means she's rarely home. Her father, Jose, also a workaholic, is a lawyer based out of Dayton. As such, Santana's not particularly close to either of them, and although the Latina puts up a tough front, Harry's fairly certain it leaves her pretty lonely at home. It's why she spends so much time at Quinn or Brittany's, and it's also why Puck's mom, Deborah, has more or less adopted Santana as her own.

"I'm sorry, Santana," Harry says.

She shrugs. "What can you do about it, you know? It is what it is."

"Right," Harry acknowledges, and he wishes he could do _something_.

As the others talk around them, he and Santana sit in an easy, companionable silence, content to listen, and to observe. Brittany's babbling about her cat, Lord Tubbington, to Quinn, who has taken to playing with the former's hair. Matt and Mike are talking about the training session they have that afternoon, to make up for the one Coach Tanaka had cancelled the day before, and Finn interjects with his displeasure regarding the issue. Puck, meanwhile, entertains himself with the grass beneath them, pulling out the manicured blades and shredding them to a whole lot of nothing.

"What do you think, dude?" Mike asks Harry.

"I think it's throwing me off," Harry answers, "Ron and I had to switch shifts this week, and it was a pain in the ass. This morning, I started packing my work uniform before I remembered I don't actually _have_ work today."

He's not exactly sure why Coaches Hooch and Tanaka had switched around their Wednesday and Thursday afternoon training sessions, and nor does Harry particularly care about the reason behind it. He's just ready for his schedule to return to normal, and he's also dreading the pain he'll feel tomorrow morning. There is, after all, a reason why they don't have two training sessions a day.

Quinn offers him a laughing grin. "You'll live, I think."

"I appreciate your sympathy, Q," Harry answers. He tickles her side, she squirms away with a laugh, and next to Puck, Finn frowns. Harry's stomach churns with nerves, and he wonders how to go about asking Quinn out.

Somehow, his eighth grade 'relationship' with Marie Bernard had not prepared him for this. Mostly because it wasn't a relationship as much as it was holding hands and occasionally fooling around whenever they got the chance, but also because he'd never actually asked her out. They'd wound up in a cupboard during a round of the cliched 'Seven Minutes in heaven', and they'd just never stopped. But then he learned she and her parents were moving back to Provence, in France, and his own parents dropped the bomb that they were moving to Ohio, and things just fizzled out from there. It wasn't love, and he didn't particularly _miss_ her, but he almost wished they'd taken things a little more seriously. Perhaps if they had, he'd be a little bit more certain of how to go about asking a girl on a date.

Brought from his reverie as the school bell blares across the grounds, Harry gets to his feet, helps the girls to their own, and then walks with Quinn and Mike to English. Hermione joins them, clad in Krum's letterman jacket, and starts up an animated conversation with Mike about the school's academic decathlon team. It segues into discussion regarding the debating team Mike, Hermione, and Harry are all members of, and all the while, Quinn observes them in silence. As she does, Harry feels horribly self-conscious, entirely too aware of her scrutiny, and it seems like an age before they reach their classroom.

"Will you sit with us?" Mike asks Hermione. "You can help me come up with questions for next week's meeting of the Brain Trust."

Hermione palms his face. "You can do that yourself, Chang."

Nevertheless, she sits beside Mike, in front of Harry and Quinn. they spend the entire class challenging each other with increasingly difficult questions that range from Pop Culture, to Science, to Literature, Politics, History, and everything in between. They only get away with it because they have a substitute teacher that morning, and as much as Harry is tempted to sit and watch and marvel over just how impossibly well-rounded and intelligent his two friends are, he instead produces his laptop from his backpack, and turns his attention to his essay regarding the social issues prevalent in 'To Kill A Mockingbird'. It's due in a week, and although Harry is mostly finished, he still hasn't written a conclusion, and neither has he started a final edit. Beside him, Quinn follows suit, and their English class passes in a haze of writing, rewriting, and spell-checking.

After homeroom, it's a productive 45 minutes in which he completes his essay, but it's still a relief when it's over.

-!- -#-

By some miracle, Harry musters up his courage by the time he reaches Biology. He's sure it's Puck's fault, because the asshole has called into question his 'badassness', among other things, but that's neither here nor there, because he also gets his chance to ask Quinn out.

As has become usual as of late, she sits beside him, and Harry slides over a folded note he'd prepared during Geometry. It's cliched and corny, but the sight of his 'Would you like to go on a date with me? Check yes or no:' note makes Quinn laugh and smile, and Harry's heart pounds as she pens her response.

The next few moments, as she folds the note and slides it back to him, seem to last an eternity. His heart pounds in his chest, he's sure his about to throw up, and it doesn't feel like he's getting enough oxygen to his lungs and/or brain. The anticipation will surely kill him.

Their teacher hasn't yet arrived, so Harry unfurls it quickly, and he can't suppress his megawatt grin if he tried.

With one of her scented gel pens, Quinn's left a tick in the box he'd drawn beside his ''YES', and he is sure his day can't get any better than this.

He clears his throat, meets Quinn's gaze, and asks, "How does Saturday evening sound?"

Quinn, who's cheeks are flushed an endearing shade of pink, bites her bottom lip. "It sounds great. I, ah, can't wait."

Harry palmed the back of his neck, and he could feel his ears burning. "Yeah, me too."

-!- -#-

 **Author's Note:** Harry, Quinn, and co. are in an Advanced English class. I don't know how obvious I made that, but that's why they're studying 'To Kill A Mockingbird'. I, personally, never studied it. In year 10, they gave us the option to study Animal Farm and Romeo and Juliet, or To Kill A Mockingbird and Macbeth, and I chose the former. A little author's trivia for you. Also, do American schools still do that whole Pledge of Allegiance thing? Google says yes, but I figured I'd ask my readers. Because, you know, enquiring Australians want to know…

Anyway, thanks for reading. Hope you've enjoyed. Leave a review? Until next time, -t.


	9. Part 1: Chapter 9: Father & Son

**Welcome to the Jungle**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter, or Glee. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Note:** In this particular chapter, italics in double quotation marks " _like so_ " signify another language. In single quotation marks ' _like so_ ', it signifies text messaging. I usually hate keys like this, because as an author, I should make it obvious within the chapter itself, but because there are two different types going on here, I thought I ought to clarify. Just in case.

 **Part One: Fifteen**

 **Chapter Nine: Father and Son**

When Harry reaches the school parking lot after football training, it's to find his dad on the phone, an unhappy frown on his face. He stands straight-backed, and he speaks quickly in rapid-fire Welsh to the person on the other end of the line. There's no telling who it is, perhaps one of Harry's grandparents, or one of his father's friends from back home, but either way, the man doesn't like whatever he's hearing, and he also doesn't want Harry to overhear it, either.

" _I have to go_ ," he says, " _I'll talk to you later._ "

He hangs up as Harry approaches, and offers the teen a strained smile.

"Everything all right, Dad?"

"Nothing for you to worry about," James answers, "That was just Sirius. It looks like he and the kids are joining us for Christmas this year. Are you ready to go?"

Harry nods, dissatisfied with his father's response, but sure he won't get any more out of him. The man's a functional mute when he wants to be. "Yeah, let's go. I'm starving. What are we having for dinner?"

"Your mum's in the mood for curry. She was rambling about Thai spices when I spoke to her at lunch, so something along those lines, I'd assume."

Harry's stomach rumbles at the thought. Curry isn't his favourite dish, but he'll generally eat anything his parents put in front of him, particularly his mother. Her food is always delicious, or at least interesting, and moreover, he's always hungry. It's a byproduct of puberty or something, and also of an active lifestyle, which Harry has in spades.

"Sounds good," he mumbles, distracted as his phone chimes with an incoming message. It's from Quinn, an enquiry about how football training had gone, decorated with emoticons, and Harry replies quickly. Puck would suggest that he delay his response, but Harry doesn't have the patience for mind games, and neither does he care much for them. As such, his response is swift, a simple ' _It was unremarkable, if painful. How was your afternoon?_ '

At the wheel, his father arches an inquisitive eyebrow. "Is that Quinn?"

"Yeah," Harry answers, "Why?"

"No reason," James shrugs, "You two have gotten rather close."

Quinn's been over to his house a few times since that disastrous afterparty, but that's nothing particularly strange. The others have been, too. In fact, the last gathering he'd had here was just before autumn had truly made its presence known, and they'd spent an entire afternoon clustered in his family's backyard, where they have a pool and enough space to play a few pick-up games of soccer, football, and to everyone but Harry's bemusement, cricket.

In saying that, however, his parents aren't idiots, and in fact, are rather observant. Harry would not be surprised to learn they'd seen a prospective relationship with Quinn coming, perhaps even before Harry himself had.

He bites the inside of his cheek, hesitates briefly, and then just blurts it out. It's embarrassing, and he's surely going to be heckled to high heaven for it, but he needs a lift on Saturday evening, and emergencies excepting, his parents never appreciate it when he asks them for one without any prior notice. "I asked her out. On a date. On Saturday."

His father smiles, unsurprised, knowing, and perhaps amused. "And what did she say?"

"She said yes." Harry can't suppress his own grin, and he turns his face towards his passenger side window to try and hide it.

James chuckles lightly, drums his fingers on the steering wheel, and asks, "Where will we be taking you?"

"I, err, haven't gotten that far yet."

As he speaks, Quinn replies with word that her afternoon was uneventful, filled with homework, projects, and revision. She informs him, also, that she's on her way to Mass, after which she has her youth group, and Harry has no real idea how to respond to that.

He settles on ' _I hope it goes well. Talk later_?' which, he hopes, doesn't sound too dismissive. Quinn's faith is important to her, and he has no intention of disregarding or disrespecting that, but it's not something he can completely identify with. His parents are both active members of the Church of England, had baptised Harry and Kate into the same, but they hadn't expected the same spiritual commitment from their children. Instead, James and Lily had educated the two, and left it up to them to decide in their own time whom or what they believed in.

Harry still hasn't made that particular decision, but he wonders what it's like for Quinn and Puck, who's faith is such an intrinsic part of their respective lives, of their very identities. It's something they've never doubted, never questioned, and that's not something Harry can completely relate to. After all, he _has_ questioned the existence of God. He _has_ questioned the inconsistencies in the Bible. he _has_ questioned whether or not he can really believe in something that has never been scientifically proven, and although he hasn't yet found his answers, he's sure the fact that he doubts at all is particularly telling.

"May I offer some advice?"

"Uh, yeah, okay," Harry answers, baffled. Excepting the mortifying, never to be repeated, plainly traumatising sex talk, and those two brief lessons on how to shave, his father has never offered Harry any unsolicited advice. He's happy to answer questions when they are asked, happy to offer opinions and suggestions when they are sought from him, but James Potter is generally of the opinion that Harry and Kate need to make - and learn from - their own mistakes. As such, the request - and the intent behind it - is surprising.

"Take her somewhere where you two can talk, but also somewhere where you don't necessarily have to talk about yourself. Dating, it's about getting to know each other, discovering whether or not you're compatible as a couple. You can't really do that in a movie theatre, or at a school dance, you understand?"

"Where should I take her, then?"

"That's for you to decide, kiddo," James answers lightly, "I can't give you all the answers now, can I?"

"That's helpful," Harry mumbles, rolling his eyes, "But thanks. For the advice."

"Anytime, kiddo," James answers, "That's what I'm here for."

Simultaneously, his father pulls into their driveway, and his phone buzzes with another message from Quinn. She's simply texted ' _Definitely_ ' with another smiley face, and Harry pockets his phone before he can be sucked into an exchange of emojis. Then he gathers up his things, and follows his father into the house.

Upstairs, he can hear Kate blasting Lady Gaga from her speakers, and Harry idly wonders how long it'll take before she and their dad get in a row about it. It won't be the first time, and undoubtedly, it won't be the last, either.

"Honey, I'm home."

"Kitchen, James," Lily answers.

As Harry's father wanders off to reunite with his wife, Harry greets Frodo and Sam with pats and scratches. They're excited, dancing on their paws as Harry dotes on them, their tails wagging, their nails clicking on the hardwood floors. They're always happy to see him, friendly and playful, and Harry makes a mental note to take them to a dog park on Sunday. His mum and dad have been walking them, but they're primarily Harry and Katie's responsibility, and both of them haven't particularly been showing it as of late.

Eventually, Frodo and Sam wander off in search of treats from Lily, and Harry retreats downstairs. He throws a load of his laundry - sweat-soaked, grass stained training clothes and all - into the washing machine, before he wanders into his bedroom to start his homework. It's exceedingly tempting to waste time on the Internet, to look up stupid shit on Youtube, to download some new music or whatever, but alas, school takes precedence. Moreover, his mother would kick his arse if she caught him procrastinating when they're both well aware that he doesn't have the time to do so.

Harry exhales roughly, drops gracelessly into his desk chair, and waits, eagerly, for the weekend. With what he has to look forward to, it can't arrive soon enough.

 **Author's Note:** Once upon a time, my dad was driving me to a friend's place, and asked out of the blue, "Are you seeing anyone?" Incidentally, I was at the time, albeit discreetly, and so I'm sure he has some sort of radar for his children's love lives. It's not even the first/last instance, but I won't mention those.


	10. Part 1: Chapter 10: Stuff & Nonsense

**Welcome to the Jungle**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter, or Glee. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Part One: Fifteen**

 **Chapter Ten: Stuff and Nonsense**

The Steam House on Saturday mornings is always crowded, which leaves little time for conversation between Ron, Hermione, and Harry. It's the only day all three of them have the same shift, and because they're on their feet the whole morning, delivering food to tables, and clearing away emptied dishes and the like, it's a particularly demanding one. Nevertheless, they've since mastered the art of managing conversations in the brief lulls in the cafe's activity, and of course, this particular day's topic of conversation is Harry's plans that evening.

"Do you know what you're doing yet?" Ron asks.

You'd hope so," Hermione quips.

"Thank you, Hermione," Harry deadpans, "If you must know, yes, I've got a plan. Reservations, even."

Ron and Hermione, pretending to be thoroughly impressed, gasp theatrically, but they don't get much of a chance to laugh about it. Instead, duty calls, and they disperse as the motion picks up again, Hermione headed to one of her emptied tables, Ron to the counter, and Harry into the kitchen. He delivers the orders that have been filled, Ron the coffees that have been made, and Hermione returns to the kitchen with the used crockery, and as they cross paths again, their conversation continues.

"Where are you going? What are you doing?" Hermione prods.

"You know that new Spanish restaurant that opened a few weeks ago? Hermosa? I'm taking her there."

It had taken a bit of research, but Harry had settled on the idea the night prior. It's got some great food, according to his very selective mother, and they've also got some live music. Nothing too demanding, just some Spanish guitar and occasionally some accompanying vocals, but it'd be enough to break the ice, if necessary. Moreover, exotic cuisines have been (and still are) an enormous part of his life, and as far as first dates go, it seems like an ideal way to introduce Quinn to the parts of him she doesn't already know. He'd briefly considered bowling or ice-skating, but he has no idea about how she feels regarding shoe/skate rentals, and thus, both possibilities have been set aside for another day.

"Classy," Ron compliments. Harry smirks. "I try."

"Don't get her flowers," Hermione advises.

"I wasn't going to."

Hermione nods her approval. "That's good. They're way too outdated, and give off the impression that you want her to like you."

"Isn't that the point of a date?" Ron appears baffled. He's got an on and off (presently on) flirtation, friends with benefits sort of thing, with one of Quinn's fellow cheerleaders, Lavender, but dates aren't exactly what they get up to when they get together. He's supportive though, if bemused by the thought of dating a member of WMHS' Celibacy Club, and that's about all Harry can really ask of him.

Hermione sighs, exasperated. "No, Ron, it isn't."

As Hermione speaks, their team supervisor, Gemma, scowls at them from her place behind the counter. Although they're the same age, she's not quite as personable as Penelope, but just as efficient and authoritative, and the sight of her glare makes them scatter with guilty grimaces and suppressed chuckles. They've got plans to grab lunch together after their shift, and evidently, the rest of their conversation will have to wait until then. In the meantime, they've got a lot of work to keep them busy, and a few hours until they're free for the afternoon.

-!- -#-

Viktor picks them up shortly after midday, and they find themselves at Breadsticks. It's packed, but the four of them have a booth to themselves, complimentary breadsticks to tide them over until their meals arrive, and enough conversation to keep them entertained. Krum's fairly quiet, which means he mostly observes and listens, but Hermione appears unconcerned, and thus Harry assumes it's not unusual for him.

Hermione and Viktor, as a couple, aren't particularly demonstrative in public, and it's something Harry can appreciate. More so is the conversation they get into regarding the European Premier League's in football (re: soccer). Interestingly enough, Hermione's father has taught her to appreciate the game, so it's a topic the four of them talk about for most of the hour and a half it takes for them to leave the restaurant.

"You enjoy football, yes? Soccer, here?" Viktor asks. They're in his car, on the way to Harry's house, and Ron's already been dropped off. Hermione's flicking through her iPod, attempting to settle on a song they can all tolerate, but given that her iPod has an embarrassing number of bubblegum pop hits, she's not having much luck.

"Yeah," Harry confirms. It's a game he's played since he was little, introduced and taught to him by his father, played in elementary school, in middle school, in a club unaffiliated with either. He follows the British, European, and American Leagues alongside his father and sister, has a favourite team and player and game, so yes, he likes soccer. He loves it, in fact.

"Why do you not play?"

Harry shrugs. "I'm a striker, and Hooch already had three of them. I didn't want to be a reserve, and I like football well enough."

"You will try next year, then?" Viktor asks, "I will not be here."

"I don't know," Harry admits, "I've thought about it, but I'm not sure yet."

It's tempting, but Harry's already made a commitment to the football team. Moreover, as arrogant as it sounds, he's the best QB Tanaka's got, and he has no interest in leaving his friends in the lurch. Finn could manage it in a pinch, but his accuracy is shit, and he's better on the defence line-up than not. As such, Harry's torn, but he's got a lot of time to think on it. He says as much, and Viktor nods his agreement.

They drive on in silence, and eventually, Krum pulls up at the curb in front of Harry's house. His dad's in the yard, mowing the lawn, and as Harry gets out of the car, Viktor and Hermione both offer him their best wishes for his date with Quinn.

"Thanks," Harry acknowledges, smiling, "For the lift as well, Krum. I appreciate it."

"It is no problem," Krum answers, "We are living close by."

"You guys will have to come by some time. Maybe when a game is on or something."

Hermione leans against her car door, and her chestnut curls float prettily around her face. "That sounds like a great idea, Harry, but we can talk about it later. You need to get ready for tonight, and Viktor has to get me home before dad mobilises a search party."

Harry laughs as Viktor pulls out of the driveway, and waves them off as they drive out of sight. His dad watches, propped against the handlebar of the rumbling lawn mower like some kind of demented sentinel, and Harry approaches him on weary feet.

"How was work?" James greets.

Harry shrugs, nonchalant. "It was work."

His dad nods his acknowledgement, and changes the subject. "You've got your debit card, yes? I've transferred 250 dollars from your savings account into your checking account, so you're set for tonight. You should have some cash on you, just in case. Do you?"

Harry nods his confirmation. It's not the first time he's been instructed thus.

"Good. Make sure your phone is charged."

"Will do, Dad. Thanks."

"No problem, kiddo," James answers. Harry's still short enough - albeit barely - that it's easy for the man to ruffle his hair, and he does so with a grin. "Now, get inside. I believe there's a load of laundry to be folded, and it has your name on it."

"Goodie." Harry grimaces, but acquiesces without protest. He can, at least, sit down while he's doing it, and better yet, it means he's not being wrangled into helping with the yard. His feet are killing him, so he'll take his victories where he can get them.

 **Author's Note:** I had intended for the date to be in this chapter, but it didn't really want to work that way. Also, it's difficult to come up with a chapter title, that is also a song title, when literally nothing happens in this chapter. I thought about 'The Long Day Is Over' by Nora Jones, but then I settled on this one instead.


	11. Part 1: Chapter 11: Autumn

**Welcome to the Jungle**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter, or Glee. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Part One: Fifteen**

 **Chapter Eleven: Autumn**

He meets Quinn outside of the restaurant, inexplicably nervous. He's gotten to know her over the last month or so, even considers her a friend, but he's never actually been on a date before. He's attracted to Quinn, certainly, and he enjoys her company, but he's kind of terrified by the possibility that this date could end in disaster. As she approaches him, however, Harry firms his resolve. He's not about to bail on her, and moreover, he doesn't actually want to.

"Hey, Quinn," he greets her, and again, it feels as though he can't get enough air in his lungs, "You look really pretty."

She's dolled up, in a powder blue dress that hugs her figure, but floats loosely around her knees. She wears a cream coloured cardigan as well, to fend off the autumnal chill, and her blonde hair is pulled into a chignon at the nape of her neck. She's left a few curls to float around her face, accented by a light layer of makeup, and indeed, she looks lovely.

"Thanks," Quinn answers, smiling, "You look great, too. Are we going inside?"

"Yeah," Harry confirms. He offers her his arm, and she tucks her hand into the crook of his elbow. As she does, there is a bemused smile on her face. "I made reservations. Have you ever had Spanish food before?"

"No, I can't say I have."

"You're in for a treat, then. It's fantastic."

Inside Hermosa, they're seated near the back, in a table set for two. It's a nice place, with darkly polished floors and paintings on the walls. There's a small stage set up on the other side of the restaurant, where a dark haired, dark eyed man plucks away at an acoustic guitar. It's busy, too, mostly with coupled off twenty-somethings, but Harry tries to pay them no heed.

Instead, he pulls Quinn's chair out for her, slides it forward as she sits, and then settles in his own seat across from her.

"How has your weekend been?"

"It's been pretty good," Quinn replies, "San and Brit slept over last night, and we went to the mall this morning. It's been a while since we just hung out like that. How has yours been going?"

"It's been all right," Harry answers, "I had work this morning, but I had lunch with Ron, Hermione, and Viktor afterwards. They're probably the only other people in Lima who follow the European Leagues, so it was fun to catch up with them."

"European Leagues?"

"Soccer," Harry clarifies, "Other than that, I haven't done much. Dave Karofsky is a douche, so I didn't go to his party, and just hung out at home. Played some games, did some homework. Nothing _too_ thrilling."

"How is your Biology paper going?"

He shrugs. "It's going. Slowly. I'm looking forward to handing it in."

"You and me both," Quinn commiserates.

Their waitress, with curly dark hair and a nose piercing, arrives with a bottle of water and a pair of glasses, and chit-chats with Harry and Quinn as she fills them. She leaves them to their own devices as quickly as she'd come, however, and Harry briefly examines the menu their hostess had provided.

Quinn studies hers more intently, and he's surprised when she addresses him. "Do you know what you're getting?"

"I do, yes. I really like paella, and my mum says it's really good here."

"She's been?"

"Yeah," Harry confirms, "They were here on opening night or something. Mum's a foodie, so she's always game to try something new."

"And your dad?"

"He's not a professional or anything, but I think he likes food as much as mum. He never complains, anyway."

"What's the worst food you've tried?"

Harry ponders that. "I don't know. I've worked hard to avoid the truly exotic stuff, but dad once dared me to try camel. It was… an experience."

Quinn goggles. "Where was that?"

"Morocco," he answers, "Casablanca, specifically."

It had been Spring Break during seventh grade, and his father had dragged him along on a business trip, acting as the representative of Peverell Industries in Charles POtter's stead. They'd had time to site see while they were there, and Harry had quickly learned that without the influence of his level-headed mother, Harry and his father were more libel to do stupid shit, like eat roasted camel in the middle of Casablanca's Central Market. It's not an experience he'd soon repeat, but he can at least laugh about it now.

"Dad couldn't stop laughing," Harry recalls, chuckling. It had been nice, because he'd spent the whole day up until that point as taut as a bow string, uncomfortable by the crowds, by the noise, by all the similarities to his life during his SAS days. "There's probably video footage somewhere. I know he took pictures."

"To be unearthed on your 21st?"

"Something like that," Harry confirms, "How about you? Any mortifying experiences you wish everyone could forget?"

"Ugh, so many," Quinn laughs, chagrined, "My older sister, Fran, was eight when I was born, so she pretty much remembers all the stupid things I did. She's probably looking forward to the opportunity to share them."

"In that case, I'm very glad I'm the oldest."

Their waitress returns to take their orders, a chicken and a seafood paella, respectively, and a lemonade each to wash it down. Their conversation continues afterwards, about friends and family, about school and hobbies, about places they both want to visit someday, and it is _easy_. Perhaps it's because he already knows Quinn, or because between their study sessions and occasional weekend hangouts, they've already been sort of dating, but by the time Harry's finished his paella, he can't quite remember why he was so nervous.

"Did you want to grab some dessert, or…?" He asks.

Quinn shakes her head, no. "I'm so full already."

Acquiescing, he asks only for the bill when their waitress returns, declines Quinn's offer to split it, and then relents when she insist on leaving the tip. It's a light-hearted debate that leaves him chuckling, and he's still got a smile on his face when he pulls open the restaurant's front door.

Quinn steps through, he follows, and they step out of the way of any pedestrians coming and going.

"All right, so to be honest, I didn't really plan anything out beyond dinner," Harry admits, "I wasn't sure how you'd feel at this point, and I didn't want to, I don't know, make you feel pressured to spend more time with me, or whatever."

"I've had a good time so far," Quinn answers. She wears a smile on her face. His heart races.

"I'm glad," Harry acknowledges earnestly, "I have, too. So I guess the question is, would you like to do something else?"

Quinn briefly glances at her phone. "Well, my curfew's at ten, and it's half passed eight now. The arcade's close by, did you just want to hang out there for an hour?"

"Just as long as I get to kick your arse in air hockey."

Quinn laughs, links her arm through his, and challenges, "I'd like to see you try, Potter."

As he slows his stride, he grins. "It's so on, Fabray."

 **Author's Note:** Yeah, writing first dates is hard. Too many feels. Also, chapter title comes from 'Autumn' by Ben Recktor. Season aside, it was oddly appropriate. Review? -t.


	12. Part 1: Chapter 12: Contagious

**Welcome to the Jungle**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter, or Glee. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Part One: Fifteen**

 **Chapter Twelve: Contagious**

He doesn't kiss her.

Not on the lips, anyway.

It's tempting to, and by the way Quinn watches him, Harry's pretty sure she wants him to, but he settles for a hug, and a kiss on the cheek, instead. His parents are in the car, engine idling, and one (or both) of her parents are probably watching from a window, and he'd rather not have an audience if or when it happens. He's not Puck, thank you.

"Thanks for coming out with me tonight," he says, not for the first time, and squeezes both of her hands in his. "I'll, er, text you?"

"Yeah, texting's good. After ten, though? I've got church."

"Of course," Harry answers. He raises their joined hands to kiss her knuckles. "G'night, Q."

He descends from the Fabray's portico, offers her a brief wave, and then retreats to his father's car. His parents are in the midst of what looks like a very serious conversation, but they both turn to him as he slides onto the leather upholstered back seat, and both of them wear expectant, curious faces.

"Did you have a good time?" James asks.

"Yeah," Harry replies, "The paella was good."

Lily rolls her eyes. "And the company?"

Harry sighs, resigned to the interrogation. "The company was good, Mum. I enjoyed myself, Quinn had a good time, I like her a lot, and we'll probably go out again."

"I don't think we'll get anymore out of him, Lil," James comments.

"No," Lily agrees, "Neither do I."

They return to an empty house, pets notwithstanding. Frodo and Sam are as enthusiastic as ever, and Loki's sprawled lazily across the back of a couch in the living room. Kate, however, is at a friend's place until Sunday afternoon, and Harry's going to miss his weekend free of dance pop, Gossip Girl reruns, and his sister's constant gabbing.

After he bids both of his parents a good night, he retreats downstairs, briefly contemplates his XBOX, and then reluctantly thinks better of it. He's got another shift at the Steam House the following morning, and he won't have the luxury of a nap afterwards. Instead, he's got a pile of homework and projects to complete, exams to study for, a new book to read for his English class, and a list of chores to complete around the house. It'll be a long day, essentially, but at least he's got Monday - and Quinn's company, specifically - to look forward to.

With all of that in mind, he reluctantly gets ready for bed, climbs under his covers, and texts Quinn a brief ' _Hey, made it home. I had fun tonight. Hope you sleep well._ ' Afterwards, he makes himself comfortable, and reflects on his evening. It had gone well, and Quinn had looked particularly pretty, and she'd been rather tactile with him, as well. It's new, but it wasn't unpleasant, and not for the first time, he wonders what it would be like to kiss her properly, to taste her skin, to touch her in ways her church would probably (re: most definitely) frown upon.

His body reacts to his thoughts, and Harry indulges. It's not the first time, it certainly won't be the last, and when he is done, he cleans himself up, and opens his bedroom window to air out his room. It's cold outside, but it's warm under his bedcovers, and Harry relaxes into his mattress with a contented sigh.

He's asleep a few minutes later.

-!- -#-

Hermione doesn't work on Sundays, but others do. Among them, Ron, who showers Harry with questions about his date with Quinn. The others working with them aren't quite as persistent, but they're as curious, and Harry's sure his face has never felt so red.

"Will you ask her out again?"

"Yeah," Harry confirms.

"What about Greengrass?" Ron asks.

Harry shrugs. "What about her? I don't even know her, really. I mean, she's pretty,-"

"That's an understatement," Ron interjects.

"But I've never said a word to her. Actually, most of the time, I think she thinks I'm beneath her notice."

It's a strange thing to experience. He's always been important to people in some way or another - James Potter's son, soccer star, football quarterback, popular guy - but he doesn't dislike it. At the same time, though, a part of Harry wonders what it would take for Daphne Greengrass to consider him worth her attention. With this thing he has with Quinn, though, Harry tries not to pay that part of him any heed.

Ron shrugs, nonchalant. "Your call, dude."

They return to work, blessedly behind the counter, and the remainder of their shift passes in a monotonous haze. It's a relief when it's over, and Harry looks forward to the day when he can get his car and can, subsequently, cut down on his hours. School's only going to get more intensive as the years go by, and he hasn't got enough time in his day for everything.

"What are you doing this afternoon?" Ron asks. They're on the sidewalk outside the Steam House, and Harry's got a walk home to look forward to. He'll probably use his skateboard when he reaches the more residential parts of Lima, but until then, he'll just have to hoof it.

"Nothing," Harry answers, "I've just got some shit to do at home."

"Yeah," Ron acknowledges, "I hear you. Mum wants us to clean out the barn by the end of this weekend."

Ron and his family live on a moderately-sized property just on the outskirts of town. His mother grows and sells her own fruit and vegetables, but according to Ron, it's just a hobby, with the benefit of being surprisingly lucrative. It does, however, mean that Ron and his siblings are often recruited to help with harvesting and soiling and all the rest of it, but evidently, as much as they complain about it, none of them are about to deny the woman who feeds them.

"I bet the twins and Ginny loved that," Harry quips.

Ron grins. "Work is work, but it's a lot better than that. They'll probably put itching powder in my sheets if I don't do my part, though.."

"Siblings," Harry commiserates.

"Siblings," Ron agrees.

They part ways, Ron for the bus stop down the street, Harry for home, and on his way, he checks his phone. He'd managed to steal a few moments shortly after ten to text Quinn, but he'd had few free minutes since, and Quinn's reply blinks up at him from his phone screen, unopened and unacknowledged. He rectifies that quickly, replies to her message and adds an apology for the delay in response, citing work.

What ensues is an intermittent exchange of text messages between Harry and Quinn that lasts throughout the afternoon, through chores and homework and a begrudging study session for his History class. By the time dinner rolls around, Harry has established that Quinn is not adverse to another date. He does, however, remain uncertain if it's too soon to ask her out again, and thus he hesitates, and asks Hermione for advice.

"I think you're an idiot," Hermione says over the phone line, "But I guess you're one of my idiots, so I'll help you out."

"Thanks," he answers, tone droll, "Love you too, Hermione."

"Yeah, yeah, what would you do without me? Anyway, you've both established you'd like to go out again?"

"Yes."

"Okay, truth? There aren't any rules here. You can call her tonight and ask her, if you want. and don't make it vague like 'let's hang out', all right? Actually have something in mind."

"Got it," Harry acknowledges, "Thanks, Hermione."

"No problem," she answers, "Good luck."

He ends his call with Hermione, and calls Quinn directly afterwards. He's supposed to be reading, analysing, and taking notes on Arthur Miller's 'The Crucible', but instead they chat about their favourite novels, movies they've seen recently, and TV shows they're into.

During a lull in their conversation, Harry takes a bracing breath, and then takes the plunge. "I don't know how you feel about shoe rentals, but if you're not opposed to them, would you like to go bowling with me?"

Quinn laughs. "I don't have a problem with shoe rentals, and I'd love to go bowling with you."

And Harry can breathe again.

 **Author's Note:** Chapter title is 'Contagious' by Avril Lavigne. Transition chapter, which is bleh, but plot and character development continues from next chapter. Thanks for reading. Hope you enjoyed. Until next time, -t.


	13. Part 1: Chapter 13: There's A Class

**Welcome to the Jungle**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter, or Glee. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Part One: Fifteen**

 **Chapter Thirteen: There's A Class For This**

Because Kate's got band practise early on Monday morning, Harry gets dropped off on the drive to his sister's middle school. It's somewhat irritating, but it's also the only reason he's able to meet with Quinn for their morning study sessions, and thus, Harry's complaints are minimal.

As expected, Quinn waits for him outside of the library. She's dressed in her usual cheerleading getup, mostly preoccupied by the novel in her hands. She hears his approach though, and upon sight of him, she smiles.

"Hey, Quinn," Harry greets. He's uncertain of whether or not she'd welcome a hug, or perhaps a kiss on the cheek, and the moment for either passes, "How are you?"

"I'm good," Quinn answers, "Yourself? Sleep well?"

"Well enough. Did you?"

Quinn shrugs. "I can't complain."

Harry tugs open the library door, and gestures for Quinn to enter the room ahead of him. The librarian is already there, clacking away at her keyboard, and Hermione is there too, accompanied by Mike. They're mock sword fighting with pencils, entertaining themselves out of sight of their elderly overseer, and Harry frowns, perplexed.

"Isn't she dating Krum?" Quinn asks.

"Yeah," Harry answers, and shrugs, "I doubt anything's going on. They're probably just doing something for the Brainiacs."

He assumes as much, anyway, because they haven't got any work for the debating team that hasn't already been done. their arguments for the next meet have already been written, and at this point, it's simply a matter of practising, individually and as a group. That usually happens during their Friday lunch hours, and the occasional Thursday one, too. With that not an option, particularly since the rest of the team would be involved if it was, and unable to fathom any other reason for them to meet early on a Monday morning, Harry pretends he doesn't notice how close they're sitting, or the fact that Hermione's not only straightened her hair, but is also wearing makeup.

Quinn gestures towards a table on the other side of the room. "Shall we leave them to it?"

"Sure," Harry acquiesces, and follows the blonde to the table in question. He spends the morning revising for his Japanese mid-term tests (written, read, and spoken, God help him), scheduled for later that week, and Quinn makes some more headway with her Biology project. They chat intermittently, occasionally share headphones, and the morning passes.

Before Harry knows it, there are only ten minutes left until homeroom, and their essays for English are due in a matter of minutes.

"Are you nervous?" Quinn asks.

"Kind of, yeah," Harry admits, "Also relieved though. I'm trying not to worry about it."

"It's good," Quinn assures, "I'm sure you'll do fine."

"I hope so."

Hermione and Mike are waiting for them at the doors to the library. The latter is jittery, as though hyped up on caffeine, and Harry's sure he'll remain that way until well after they've submitted their papers. Hermione, similarly, is rather fretful, gnawing at her fingernails and tugging at the end of her braid, and Harry greets them both with a wry, commiserating grin.

"You lot ready for this?"

"Ready for it to be over," Mike answers.

"Don't know why," Quinn parries, "It just means we'll have something equally as daunting to focus on."

"Don't remind me," Harry grimaces, chagrined. English is only the first in a list of tests, papers, projects, and reports, and Thanksgiving seems a lifetime away.

"Whoops."

"All right, so what's the deal with everyone hooking up all of a sudden?"

The question comes from Matt, whom Harry shares Social Studies with. Other than Computer Science, Health, and Gym, it's the _only_ class they share, and their teacher is a hard task master. It's a standard freshman class, but he still expects a lot from his students, and slacking off isn't worth the lectures they'll inevitably receive. It's a fairly heavy class, as far as course load goes, because it's a combined US History and World Geography class, and as such, they've got a lot of information to learn in only one school year. Thus far, Harry's managed to stay afloat, but he's one of the lucky ones in that regard.

Matt is, too, mercifully.

"I have no idea." He'd heard from Puck, of course, that he and Santana had hooked up - in the Biblical sense - at Dave Karofsky's party. Mike and Brit had made out at the same place, and according to Puck, there is a lot of video footage of the two of them - Mike and Brit, that is - getting particularly close on the dance floor. It's somewhat bewildering, because he'd not picked up any vibes coming from either pair, but he isn't about to butt his nose into business that has nothing to do with him.

"I hope no one expects me to hook up with Finn."

Harry grimaces. "Dude, no. Finn's a dumbass."

Matt huffs a laugh. "Got that right."

Finn Hudson isn't Harry's favourite person. The guy's a few french fries short of a Happy Meal, too used to getting his way as an only child to a widowed, single mother. He's unmotivated, short-sighted, and lazy, and Harry spends most of his time in the other boy's company wondering how Puck can be friends with someone so obtuse. Mike and Matt are generally ambivalent where Finn is concerned, much like Harry himself, and Harry privately wonders how long it will take before Puck realises that, unless he makes an effort to change, Finn is just going to wind up as deadweight in the long run.

In saying that, Harry tolerates the other boy's company. Not only are they teammates and thus, tolerance is par for the course, but Puck and Finn are a packaged deal, lifelong friends and all that, and Harry's not dumb enough to tell Puck to choose. The very thought is far too 'jealous girlfriend' for his taste, and he'd sooner punch himself in the face than ever come across as such. Moreover, it's none of his business who Puck - or anyone - decides to be friends with, and at the end of the day, it's not going to have any impact on his own life.

He's brought from his reverie as their teacher shuffles into the classroom. He drops a stack of paper on his desk, does a quick head count of the students present, and then nods to himself, evidently satisfied by the number he receives. Then he starts his lesson, and Harry makes an effort to pay attention to that day's material.

The lesson drags.

-!- -#-

Predictably, Karofsky's party is all everyone can talk about over lunch. Quinn had gone, had been wholly unimpressed by the alcohol, the party-goers, and by the fact that the police had been called in.

They'd all been sober though, and thus had nothing to worry about, or so the story goes.

"The way Karofsky talked it up, I thought it would be epic. It was pretty boring, actually," she says dismissively.

"Our party would be awesome, though," Brittany contributes, "It will be duck themed. Lord Tubbington's already decided that he'll be the guest of honour. No one else is invited though. Just us."

"I can roll with that," Mike says. Harry shrugs his concession, and Matt pretends to crack a whip in front of Mike's face. Mike gives him the finger, and Harry laughs along with the rest of them.

It's made awkward by Finn.

"So, how was your date on Saturday?"


	14. Part 1: Chapter 14: Kiss Me

**Welcome to the Jungle**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter, or Glee. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Part One: Fifteen**

 **Chapter Fourteen: Kiss Me**

That Friday, they do well in their football game. They don't win, but they're a better team than they were at the start of the year, more fluid, more cohesive, just _more_. Harry doesn't actually expect to win, so he's still fairly cheerful afterwards, and when he meets up with her, Quinn's all smiles, too.

"Hey," she greets him, "Good game."

"Thanks," Harry replies. "I like the paint."

Quinn grins. "I had hoped you would."

In black and red, someone's painted his jersey number on one of Quinn's cheeks, and the sight sends a thrill through him. It's possessive, a blatant indication that she's his, and he probably shouldn't appreciate it so much; particularly since they haven't actually defined anything yet. They're 'dating', and although Harry intends to ask her to actually give a relationship with him a go, he'd also like to see how a couple more dates turn out beforehand.

Around them, the football team and cheerleaders are mingling, along with their families, friends, and assorted hanger-ons. His dad's there, in conversation with Matt and Mike's parents, Puck's mom, and Coach Tanaka.

Harry _should_ be concerned by it, but instead, he's more intent on he and Quinn's plans later that evening.

"Are we still on for bowling?"

"I'm keen," Quinn answers.

"Yeah? Me too. I do warn you, though, I'm a mean bowler."

Quinn laughs. "Bring it, Potter."

They're still heckling each other when the parents disperse, and they both turn towards the parking lot. James falls into step beside Harry, greets Quinn warmly, and then draws them both - Quinn and Harry - into a conversation about Literature.

It keeps them entertained until they reach the bowling alley. Quinn's perhaps as well read as Harry himself, and his parents, of course, are in a league of their own. Quinn's also very happy to debate her opinions until she's blue in the face, and Harry isn't afraid to disagree with her. The conversation remains mercifully lighthearted, however, and thus they're still in high spirits when they enter the Bowl-O-Rama.

In short order, a lane is allocated, shoes are rented, and bowling balls are acquired. It's not long before they're laughing, bantering, having a good time, and in the two games they play, Quinn kicks his ass. Evidently, it's payback for the ass-whooping he'd she'd received during their impromptu air hockey tournament, but Harry doesn't mind too much. They're having fun, and it's all that really matters.

"Dinner's on me," Quinn declares, "You paid for it last time."

"You sure?" Harry asks.

"Yeah," Quinn confirms, "What do you want?"

They wind up with burgers and drinks, with a bowl of fries to share between them. Quinn packs her meal away with unhesitating, absurdly tidy ease, and the fact is stupidly attractive. Coach Sylvester would probably have an apoplexy, but evidently, Quinn doesn't give a shit, and Harry's a little - or a lot - in awe of this girl.

-!- -#-

After eating, they leave the Bowl-O-Rama, and make the short walk to a nearby children's park. It's brightly lit, and there are some stoner kids making use of the picnic benches, but the swing set is free, and it's where Quinn leads him, his hand clasped in hers.

"Do you want me to push you?"

Quinn shakes her head. "That's okay. Probably not a good idea after eating."

"Touche," he concedes. As Quinn leans against one of the support posts, Harry shifts to stand in front of her, offers her a tentative smile, and reaches up a hand to brush his thumb over her painted cheek. "I know it makes me sound like a caveman or something, but I really like seeing my number on you."

Quinn's laugh is sheepish. "To be honest, I was kind of terrified you'd hate it. Santana said you'd think it's hot, but Santana's crazy."

"It's very hot," Harry assures. He drops his hand before he can do something stupid, like run his thumb along Quinn's bottom lip, "And you're very pretty."

Quinn blushes, and ducks her head. She's actually flattered. "Thank you."

"No need to thank me." He steps into her space, and his heart is racing. Quinn glances at him through her eyelashes, bites down tentatively on her bottom lip, and takes his hands in hers. "Did you have a good time tonight?"

"I did. Did you?"

"Without a doubt," Harry answers. He shuffles closer, twines together their fingers, and dips his head to Quinn's uplifted face. He can feel her breath against his lips, small, gasped breaths that indicate she's perhaps as nervous as him. "May I kiss you, Q?"

She nods, maintaining eye contact, and it's all Harry needs.

He bows his head to kiss her properly, and it's a rush. Quinn's lips are soft and plump, and she tastes like strawberries. He has no idea when she'd have had the opportunity to apply lip gloss since their dinner, but it's not exactly something he dwells on. Instead, as one of his hands cradle the back of her neck, and the other clutches the jersey material at her waist, he sips at her lips as he would wine, slow and lingering, and God, he loves this.

He reluctantly pulls back before he can get carried away, however, certain Quinn wouldn't appreciate any overtures of _more_. Not now, and perhaps not for a long time, but surprisingly, he can live with that.

Quinn exhales, tremulous. "Wow."

"Yeah," Harry agrees, oddly breathless himself. He laughs though, giddy and plainly _relieved_ , and Quinn joins him, carefree. SHe's content, also, to lean against him, her forehead against one of his shoulders, and he can probably stay like this until dawn. Alas, the stoners are watching them, intent and discomforting, and Quinn's sister, Fran, is due to pick them up outside the bowling alley in 10 minutes. As such, he reluctantly guides Quinn the way they'd come, their hands clasped between them, and they return to the Bowl-O-Rama in an easy, companionable silence.

-!- -#-

Francesca Fabray is an older, softer version of Quinn, easy to laugh, to tease her little sister, to interrogate Harry with all of the unrelenting protectiveness of older siblings everywhere. She listens to Nora Jones and Stevie Nicks and Amy Whinehouse, and Harry's sure he learns more about Quinn in the 15 minute drive to his home than he has in the three months of actually knowing her.

"This is it," Harry says, and Fran pulls into the driveway, "Thanks for the lift."

"No problem," Quinn's sister answers lightly, "It was nice to meet you."

"Likewise."

To his left, where Quinn is curled up behind the driver's seat, he offers his date a smile, lifts her hand to leave a kiss upon her knuckles, and bids her a good night.

Then he retreats from the car before things can get awkward, and waves as they pull away from the house. The two sisters disappear into the night, and Harry looks forward to the moment he can see Quinn again.

It won't be soon enough.

 **Author's Note:** Horribly sappy. Cavity inducing. So hard to write. Thanks for reading. Review? Until next time, -t.


	15. Part 1: Chapter 15: The Fear

**Welcome to the Jungle**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter, or Glee. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Part One: Fifteen**

 **Chapter Fifteen: The Fear**

After work, Harry spends Saturday afternoon kicking a ball around with Ron, and with a couple of his friend's on the soccer team. Dean and Seamus are a riot, talented, affable mid-fielders who have no qualms about heckling him about his place on the football team, but they're also very honest when they say they'd be happy to have him on their own team next season, too. It's flattering and appreciated, and Harry's sure nobody on the football team would like to hear that he's seriously considering it.

It's more than just the fact that he loves soccer. It's the scrutiny, the expectations, the peer pressure to get involved with the slushies, and the swirlies, and all the other gratuitous bullshit the football team is involved in. It's exhausting, it's wearing him out, and as is, the only thing that makes him hesitate is the fact he's already made a commitment to Coach Tanaka, and to his teammates. As tempting as it is to jump ship, he has no desire to leave them in the lurch.

"We're having a game night at mine," Seamus informs him. "Did you want to join us? It's nothing fancy, just some food, some drinks, maybe some COD."

"Sounds good," Harry acquiesces. "Thanks for the invite."

"No problem," Seamus shrugs, "Your good people, mate."

Harry chuckles. The form of address, prolific in the UK, sounds oddly incongruous with Seamus' Irish-American accent, but he somehow makes it work.

Harry wonders what their peers think about it.

"When should I be at yours, where do you live, and should I bring anything?"

Details and contact information are exchanged, and Harry splits off to clean up at home. Seamus doesn't live far from him, and thus Harry has every intention of just taking his skateboard there, but his father offers him a lift, and Harry's not about to turn it down.

Of course, he is unsurprised to find his father has an ulterior motive. It's unlike him to offer Harry a lift when their destination is close enough for him to get there independently. It's James and Lily's way of cutting the apron strings, along the same lines as doing his own laundry, keeping his bedroom, bathroom, and living space clean, contributing to the rest of the household chores, getting a job, and all the rest of it.,.

"I want you to continue your Martial Arts training."

Harry blinks, bemused. "Why?"

His father drums his fingers against the steering wheel. "I've heard some concerning news from Sirius. I want you and your sister to be prepared, in case you two ever have to protect yourselves."

"We're literally on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean," Harry deadpans.

Despite his words, however, a frisson of fear shoots down his spine. He doesn't know much about his father's work with the SAS, and even less about the man's work work with MI5, but Harry _does_ know that both careers were - and remain - exceedingly dangerous. He's retired now, has hung up his gun and embraced life as a civilian, but if he's reading between the lines correctly, it's apparent that James Potter's past isn't done with him quite yet.

"What the hell, Dad? I don't have time!" Harry protests, startled. Admittedly, the football season ends in a week, but try-outs for basketball start only two weeks later, and he's already up to his armpits in assessment for school.

"I need you to _make_ time, Harry," James answers. His jaw clenches, his hands around the steering wheel too, and then he consciously makes an effort to relax. "I'm not going to jeopardise your wellbeing under the delusion I can protect you on my own. A very dangerous man has escaped from prison, and I am not going to sit back and blindly hope he chooses _not_ to branch out beyond Britain's borders."

"When do you expect me to sleep?" Harry asks, incredulous. His voice is far higher than he'd like.

"It's doable," James insist, "You've maintained a busier schedule than this."

That, he can't argue. He'd attended dance, music, and etiquette lessons until the end of Junior High (begrudgingly, for the most part) on top of his Martial Arts, Athletic, and Scholastic commitments. There had also been a couple of private art courses, though those had been summertime programs, and therefore, they'd had no impact on his regular schedule.

That said, his grades are a lot more important now than they had been in middle school, and he has no interest in jeopardising his prospects for university for Martial Arts classes that, arguably, he doesn't need. He's already proficient in Tae-Kwan-Do, Karate, and Jujitsu, after all, and isn't that enough?

"This is nonnegotiable, Henry."

Harry grimaces. It's rare that his parents use his given name, and when they do, Harry knows there's no swaying them. In this instance, his father's mind is set - presumably, his mother's, too - and subsequently, he'll be attending a couple of Martial Arts classes each week.

He resigns himself to the fact with a sigh, and asks, "What will I be learning?"

"Karate and Judo," James answers, and pulls up at the curb in front of Seamus' house. "We're here."

-!- -#-

Inside the house, Dean, Ron, and Seamus have been joined by another guy in their class, unfortunate enough to have been named Neville Longbottom. He's on the soccer team as well, on the defence line-up alongside Ron's older twin brothers, and he's apparently a shoe-in for the wrestling team, too. Everyone calls him Frankie, but Harry hasn't actually had the opportunity to meet him yet.

"Hey," Harry greets them. Ron and Dean are absorbed in a round of Mario Kart, but Frankie's hunched over a laptop, clacking away at the keys with the almost desperate focus of someone who's got an essay due in days, and too many words left to write.

Seamus hands Harry a Guinness, gestures for him to get comfortable, and then does the same with a guitar in his lap. He sips intermittently at his beer, idly plucks at the strings of his guitar, and hums under his breath.

"How long have you played?" Harry asks, content to make himself comfortable on the other end of the same couch Frankie's settled into. He gestures vaguely at the acoustic steel-string in Seamus' lap, and sips at his beer while he awaits an answer.

"God, I don't know, as long as I can remember, I guess."

"Do you play anything else?"

Seamus shrugs, nonchalant. "Piano. Ukulele. Do you play anything?"

"I had piano, cello, and singing lessons for years," Harry admits, "I taught myself the guitar in junior high, but I haven't played in ages. Don't have much time anymore."

"I hear you," Seamus commiserates, "Shit's hectic."

Harry grimaces. "Tell me about it."

They hang out for a while, alternating players and shooting the breeze, and Frankie eventually shuts his laptop to socialise instead. Seamus shares his guitar, and they take turns playing idle tunes, or memorised songs, but eventually, it grows late, and Seamus shepherds them all into his yard.

There, he produces a lighter, a jar of ground weed, and a bong.

Harry's not the only one surprised.

"Whoa, dude, where the hell did you get that shit?" Dean asks, wide-eyed.

Ron's eyebrows nearly reach his hairline. "You didn't tell me it was going to be one of _those_ nights."

Frankie is speechless.

Come to think of it, Harry is, too.

"Never mind that," Seamus shrugs off Dean's question, "Are you guys in?"

The rest of them glance between themselves, but eventually, they slowly, hesitantly acquiesce.

In the light of day, when the high is faded and the distinctive smell is soaked into his clothes, Harry can't bring himself to regret it.


	16. Part 1: Chapter 16: We Are Young

**Welcome to the Jungle**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter, or Glee. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Part One: Fifteen**

 **Chapter Sixteen: We Are Young**

The last football game of the season comes and goes, assessment deadlines do the same, and Harry an Quinn make their relationship 'official' after dinner and a movie the following Saturday.

Before Harry knows it, it's Halloween, and he and his friends have gathered at Cedric Diggory's for what is set to be a truly epic party. They're clustered on the outdoor furniture on the back porch, Harry, Quinn, Santana, Brittany, Mike, Matt, Puck, and Finn. His other friends are around too, dancing, or playing beer pong in the dining room, and they're having a good time. None of them are truly plastered yet, content to hang out and shoot the breeze, but then, the night is still young.

"All right, all right," Santana clicks her fingers to get their attention, and then produces a bottle of vodka, "Let's play, fuckers. Never Have I Ever. Anyone opposed?"

Harry rolls his eyes. As freshman, he's truly skeptical that any of them - with the possible exception of Santana and Puck - will have enough sexual experience to warrant a game like this, and thus he offers up another suggestion. "How about Truth or Dare instead?"

"That's no fun," Brittany pouts.

"Sure it is, Brit," Harry assures, "We'll just have to take a shot every time we choose 'truth', okay?"

None of them protest, and Puck produces a collection of disposable shot glasses from literally nowhere. They use one of Puck's empty beer bottles as a spinner, and Santana volunteers herself to spin first.

It lands on Harry. He pours himself a shot, opts for truth, and resigns himself to a complete invasion of his privacy. "All right, hit me."

Santana smirks. "How far have you been with a girl?"

"Oral," Harry answers concisely, "Given and received."

"Really?" Santana is impressed. "Who?"

"Nope, one question per turn," Harry denies, "Besides, it's none of your beeswax."

The game proceeds with invasive questions and ridiculous dares, and Harry learns more about Santana and Puck's sex lives than he ever really wanted to. Brittany, Mike and Matt have their own contributions, too, and he's actually glad when Quinn gets bored and tugs him away to dance. No doubt, they'll have to talk about their respective answers later, but for now, he simply enjoys the party, and more importantly, the company.

It's as they're dancing, Quinn's hands in his, that Cedric Diggory approaches. Harry can count on one hand the amount of times he's spoken to the junior, but Diggory's a cool dude, laid-back and affable, and also a shoe-in for the soccer captaincy next year.

At present, he's got his diminutive girlfriend, Cho, tucked under one arm, and he greets Harry with a clap to his shoulder, a grin, and a shouted enquiry as to how Harry's enjoying the party.

Over the thumping bass, Harry hardly hears him.

"It's awesome, dude!" Harry answers, gives him a grin and a thumb's up for effect, and Quinn does the same.

A pleased Cedric wanders off with Cho, and Harry and Quinn continue to dance. She kisses him there, in the living room turned dance floor, and there's nowhere else he'd rather be.

-!- -#-

He wakes late the next morning. He's at Puck's, sprawled out on the couch, and the dude's little sister, Abigail - Abby, or Bébé, depending on whom you ask - is in front of the TV, 'Hannah Montana' turned down low. She's seven years old and a pint-sized badass, and she utterly idolises her older brother.

Puck himself is still in bed, presumably, but Harry can hear Mike and Matt in quiet conversation in the kitchen, and the low tones of Ms Puckerman as she hums along to something on the radio.

Harry yawns, stretches, and ruffles Abby's hair as he passes her. He leaves the room, makes a brief detour in order to use the facilities, and then joins his friends in the kitchen. They both nurse drinks, content to chat between themselves as Ms Puckerman prepares breakfast. She's fairly tall and rather thin, with dark hair and a sun kissed complexion, and she's completely, utterly fierce.

According to Puck, his parents have been divorced since Puck was 12. They'd lived in Marseille before then, his father's birthplace, but afterwards, Ms P had returned to her hometown with Noah and Abigail in tow. There's an arrangement that sees Puck and Abby in France every summer, and Mr Dubois - Puck's dad - in Lima every Hanukkah, but beyond that, Puck hasn't shared much.

Then again, Harry hasn't asked.

"Morning, Ms P," Harry greets her. He drops into a seat across from Mike, pours himself a glass of the available orange juice, and belatedly enquires, "Did you want any help?"

"That's all right, honey," Ms P answers, "Just make yourself comfortable. I'm almost done. Where's Noah?"

"Probably still comatose," Mike answers, "Dude sleeps like a rock."

Puck's mom laughs. "Don't I know it."

Matt, Mike, and Harry chat idly, about their plans that day, about recent movie releases, about the party the night before. He's switched his shift at the Steam House, so he's got the afternoon shift rather than the morning one, but in conferencing the time, Harry finds he's only got a few hours until he has to be there.

He says as much, and Ms Puckerman offers him use of their shower. Puck's already said Harry could use his, but he thanks the woman regardless, and retreats upstairs to properly ready himself for the day.

Puck's awake by the time he returns to the kitchen, and there's a plate of pancakes, a couple of croissants, and turkey bacon set aside for Harry. After thanking his host, Harry demolishes them with enthusiasm, and all the while, Abigail exults under the attention of her brothers friends. They indulge her, Puck as well, and the minutes drift by.

"How are you getting to work?" Ms Puckerman asks him.

"Mum," Harry answers, "She's got some paperwork to do, so she said she'd pick me up on her way in."

"It's a great place," Ms Puckerman compliments.

Harry smiles. "She'll be pleased to hear you think so."

It's a little weird, but the parental units have developed some sort of network, phone tree thing, and although Harry wouldn't necessarily go so far as to call them all friends, there's certainly some degree of familiarity there. It's a little inconvenient, because slipping things passed them is markedly more difficult, but it's not as though he can tell his parents who they can and can't talk to. Moreover, it also makes crashing at friends' places easier, because there isn't the unknown about whom, exactly, his parents are putting their trust in, and subsequently, there are significantly less questions to endure. It's not something he dwells on, in any case.

He receives a text from his mother with word that he needs to be ready in 10 minutes, and then proceeds to gather up his things. As he does, Mike and Matt let Abby win a race in Mario Kart, and Puck strums idly, almost disinterestedly, at an old, battered guitar. Harry himself was unaware his friend played, or had any interest in music, actually, but Mike and Matt are unsurprised, and it's easy to forget that he's only known them for a few months.

It seems a lot longer.

 **Author's Note:** Mostly a filler, but Harry learns Puck plays guitar, and we also meet a few more characters. Some more back story and plot development in the next few chapters, unless my muse changes its mind. Until next time, -t.


	17. Part 1: Chapter 17: Ode to my Family

**Welcome to the Jungle**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter, or Glee. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Part One: Fifteen**

 **Chapter Seventeen: Ode to My Family**

Harry receives the news on the way to the Steam House. Overnight, in the UK, there was an attempted break-in at his grandparents' townhouse, in Cardiff, and they are on their way to Lima, to stay indefinitely. They're his father's parents, affluent, distant, and successful, and the plan is for them to stay in the apartment over the garage while the rest of them continue on with their own lives.

On the surface, the relocation is an extreme reaction, but as it turns out, Charles and Dorea have recently received a series of increasingly violent threats, and no one wants to know if the assailant - or assailants - intend to try again.

"Do they know who's behind it?" Harry asks. His mind wanders to the conversation with his father from weeks prior, and his stomach churns. He can't tell if it's from the alcohol, or from the fear, and the threat suddenly seems a lot more _real_ than it had been beforehand.

"No," Lily frowns, "Your grandparents are far too well known; it could be anyone. They're still investigating."

Charles Potter, by birthright, is the Earl of Ceredigion, in Wales. Although it doesn't mean much as far as the government is concerned, the man's dedicated most of his adult life to representing the county in question as an MP, and he's made a lot of political adversaries in the process. That aside, he's also the spouse of Dorea Black, who has developed her own cosmetic label that has transcended the riggers of time, socio-economic boundaries, and international borders. She's a public figure in her own right, a household name and an outspoken advocate of marriage, racial, ethnic, religious, and gender equality, and she, too, has her own share of professional rivals.

And then, of course, there is the threat his father had spoken of, and Harry knows nothing where that particular possibility is concerned.

"When will they arrive?"

"This afternoon," she answers, "They took the first flight out. Your dad's picking them up from Dayton."

"I wonder how they'll handle the apartment?" Harry muses. The place is decent, with the most modern of amenities, finely furnished and all that, but Charles and Dorea Potter are undeniably accustomed to a lifestyle far more luxurious than what Lima, Ohio can provide them, and he can't imagine either of them comfortable in the (comparatively) humble home his parents have made for themselves, and for Kate and Harry, too.

His mother laughs. "I guess we'll find out."

"Guess so."

-!- -#-

Between work, Ron and Hermione, Harry doesn't get much of an opportunity to brood over the news. Instead, he waits tables, mediates their squabbling, and finds it in himself to laugh. Evidently, Hermione disapproves of Ron's on and off again, friends with benefits, pseudo relationship with one of the freshman cheerleaders, Lavender, and she has no qualms about admitting it. He's not sure why she's only opted to speak up now, when it's something they've known about for a while, but he's not about to ask her.

In any case, Ron doesn't appreciate Hermione's opinion, of course. In his opinion, it's none of Hermione's business whom he chooses to spend his time with, and is he criticising her for her relationship with someone two years older than her?

Harry's sure the only reason they haven't devolved into a no holds barred screaming match is because they're both entirely aware of where they are, and also because their weekend supervisor, Gemma, is kind of terrifying.

Alas, his shift ends, and with it, his distraction, and before Harry knows it, he's on his way home in the passenger seat of his mother's car. He spends the trip texting Quinn, who has no idea about his heritage, and Harry has no idea how to keep it that way. He has no desire to endure the scrutiny he'll inevitably receive if (or when) word gets out of his family's noble title and/or accomplishments, and God help him, but _someone_ in Lima is bound to realise whom, exactly, his grandparents are.

It's only a matter of time.

-!- -#-

The place is empty when they get home. Kate's evidently decided to accompany their father to Dayton, and the pets have made themselves comfortable on the patio furniture. His mother proceeds to fret over the cleanliness, unfathomably nervous, and Harry is roped - begrudgingly - into ensuring the house and apartment are immaculate. It's a ridiculous endeavour, because Charles and Dorea Potter adore his mother as though she were their own daughter, and the house is already spotless.

His dad and Kate have obviously already gone over everything with a fine-toothed comb, and there are a lot of other, more productive, things Harry could be doing with his time.

"Maybe you should practice your piano," his mother muses.

Harry groans his displeasure. He hasn't played in ages - literally months - and the thought of having to perform for his grandparents fills him with dread.

It's not that he _dislikes_ performing, per se, but rather, it's the fact Charles and Dorea Potter are exceedingly particular about what they like to hear, and more so over the quality of the music in question. Mozart and Bach and all the rest of the classic composers are ridiculously difficult to learn, and the disappointment on his grandparents' faces every time a piece doesn't meet their lofty standards?

It's the worst.

"You know they'll ask for you to play for them while you're here," Lily reasons.

"I'm never here," Harry answers, "Maybe they'll forget to."

His mother laughs, and offers him a couple of condescending pats to the cheek. "Keep dreaming, honey."

"Make Katie do it."

Kate's a performer, and she always has been. She's dynamic and dramatic in ways that serve her well on stage, and she's always expressed a desire to be famous in some way, shape, or form. She attends a variety of dance, acting, and music classes outside of school hours, she's in her school's concert band, the choir, and the drama club, and a show for their grandparents? It's right up her alley.

"She'll do it anyway," Lily flippantly answers.

"That's true," Harry concedes. He runs his fingers along the ivory keys of their upright piano, and then plays out an easy, mindless tune. He plays the chords and melody with ease, and he smiles to himself. It's been a long time, but as it always will, the piano has welcomed him back with open arms.

-!- -#-

Every summer, Harry and Kate usually spend a month in Wales, visiting with their grandparents there. They spend a fair bit of time in Cardiff, and occasionally London, but Most of the holiday is spent in the family's ancestral seat of Cardigan Castle, in Cardigan, and it's a month spent fishing, hiking, riding, or swimming, and it is idyllic. Afterwards, they spend another two weeks in France, on the Riviera, doing more of the same and then some, before they are required to return home, to their parents, to the end of summer, and to their inevitable, begrudging return to school.

Despite his family's move from Chicago, Illinois to Lima, Ohio, the summer just passed is no exception. As such, it's only been a few months since Harry has last seen his grandparents, but it's evident quickly that their recent trials have taken a toll on them both. They look older than Harry remembers, with more grey in their hair and lines on their faces. In their 70's, they're not exactly spring chickens, and the sight is grounding.

He's never thought much about human mortality before, but he wonders how much longer he's got with his Nain and Taid.

"Henry," Charles Potter greets him with a firm squeeze of his shoulder, then just goes for broke and tugs Harry into a hug. It's one Harry reciprocates gingerly, painfully cognisant of the frailty he's never truly noticed before. His grandfather is _old_ , and the truth hurts.

"Hi, Taid," Harry acknowledges, the words choked out around the lump in his throat, "How was your flight?"

"Uneventful," Charles answers. He manages a laugh. "Probably for the best. I don't think my heart can take any more shocks."

Nearby, James frowns. "That's not something to joke about, Dad."

"Life's too short to dwell on the unfortunate things, Jimmy."

As both men begin to 'debate' the issue, Harry greets his grandmother in a similarly tentative embrace. Contrary to her larger than life personality, Dorea Potter is rather petite, and she is almost engulfed in his hug.

"You've grown," Dorea observes, and absently smooths out creases in his shirt, "You Potter boys; always so tall."

"It's good to see you, Nain," Harry informs her, "I'm sorry the circumstances are so unfortunate."

"We'll manage," Dorea answers, "We always do."

And really, that's all Harry needs.


	18. Part 1: Chapter 18: Manic Monday

**Welcome to the Jungle**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter, or Glee. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Part One: Fifteen**

 **Chapter Eighteen: Manic Monday**

It's late, and conversation over the dining table has turned to British and US politics, economics, and international relations. The dishes have been cleared away, the dessert wine's been produced, the homemade hazelnut torte, too, and Harry is bored out of his mind. Kate is, as well, and she's spent the last 20 minutes plaiting the ends of her hair between slow, thoughtful sips of her sauternes.

They've both been offered only half of what the adults have, which in itself is only half a glass, though that's nothing new. THey've both been drinking wine since the age of ten, progressively less deluded as they've grown older. They're old enough to warrant no water, but they're still not allowed as much as the adults, but neither of them are too bothered by that.

Apparently, the fact they're allowed to imbibe at all is in order to foster a healthy respect and appreciation for wine, and for alcohol in general. It's also such a European ideology, and it makes him laugh.

It's a fairly liberal mindset, as far as parenting, children, and alcohol are concerned, but there is something to be said about the lack of novelty in the act of drinking, of getting drunk, to Harry. It's not a view many of his peers share, too caught up in the thrill of doing something illegal, rebelling against their parents' authority, testing (and ignoring) their limits, and all the rest of it.

Admittedly, he gets it. He's recently been introduced to weed, and it is still foreign and illicit enough to give him a thrill that has nothing to do with drugs and everything to do with the accompanying illegality. It's just that, to him, alcohol's a little overrated, and that opinion can be attributed firmly to his upbringing.

He hasn't spoken about this with Kate, who has recently begun posting shit on Facebook and MySpace about parties and all the other trash he sees from his peers, but he's fairly certain she feels the same way. He hopes as much, anyway, but then, she _is_ only 13. Her birthday's not until January, and she - like him - has a few more years to make up her mind either way.

"I hear you've found yourself a girlfriend, Henry?" Dorea enquires. She says his name as though it were 'Henri', and it's easy to forget the woman was born and raised in Paris. Her father's family - infamous in certain circles - have been pure English for generations, but her father eloped with a French nurse after World War I, and was nearly disowned for it. As a result, and despite Germany's occupation of France in World War II, it's only as an adult that she's considered the United Kingdom home. For the most part, however, her accent is all Wales.

Emphasis on the 'for the most part', of course.

Harry offers his parents an unimpressed frown, but they both appear shameless. Kate's got a smirk on her face, amused and glad not to be under the same scrutiny, and Harry curbs the desire to kick her under the table. Meanwhile, his ears are burning, and his face has probably never been so red.

"Yes, I've been seeing someone. Her name is Quinn."

"She's a lovely young lady," James contributes. "Very intelligent."

"Quite ambitious, too," Lily offers. "Her goal is to attend Yale."

"Well, I am looking forward to meeting her," Dorea acknowledges, "Is she pretty?"

" _I_ think so," Harry answers. He's not too enthused by the prospect of his girlfriend meeting his grandmother, but he's not too sure he'll have much of a choice in the matter either way. Dorea Black isn't afraid to get her hands dirty in order to accomplish whatever she sets her mind to. As such, if she's truly invested in meeting Q, there isn't much that could stop her.

"That's what matters," Dorea acknowledges, "Though you ought to remember; physical beauty isn't everything."

The advice is rather ironic, coming from a woman who's cosmetics label is a household name across the western world. It's no less true, however, if easy to forget (not to mention difficult to believe) in an age of social media, photoshop, and all the rest of it.

"I know," he says, and he's not sure what else to say. He's not about to go into length about why, exactly, he'd asked Quinn out, because it's none of their business and a little too personal for his taste, and he'd never hear the end of it from Kate besides.

Blessedly, his grandmother turns the interrogation towards school, towards he and Kate's classes and extra-curricular activities, and it's marginally less uncomfortable than questions about his romantic life. Eventually, however, he calls it a night, siting work the following morning, and retreats downstairs before he can be sucked into another conversation about the state of the US economy, or President Bush, or the current state of things in the Middle East.

He collapses into bed with a tired groan, and he's asleep before his head hits the pillow.

-!- -#-

In the late 1800's, Peverell Industries was built from the ground up by William Potter, the then Lord Potter, Earl of Ceredigion. It was one of the foremost producers of coal in Wales, provided a great deal of employment among the region, and subsequently boosted the country's economy to new heights. It has since expanded, into oil, technology, and the ironic pursuit of clean energy, and both Harry and Kate - if she so wishes - are each expected to one day contribute to it in some way, shape, or form.

Dorea Black has done so, with her cosmetics label, and Harry's mother, Lily, has done the same with her slowly expanding Steam House chain. His father, James, often acts as a business representative in Charles Potter's stead, as an advisor as well, and Harry hasn't the foggiest idea of how he will successfully follow in their enormous footsteps. Thus far, he's not tried to think about it too much, but the presence of his grandparents has brought those concerns to the fore, and Harry can't help but brood over it.

Quinn notices, predictably. It's Monday morning, they're in the library once again, and Mike and Hermione are, too. As has become something of a routine, the four of them are actually sitting together, spread out around a table that fits eight, elbows deep in projects and revision. It's kind of fortunate, because the influence of Mike, Hermione, and Quinn pushes him to do better, and subsequently, his grades are better than they've ever been.

It doesn't matter much, of course - he's only a freshman, after all - but it's gratifying nevertheless. It also means he's been pretty cheerful, all things considered, and his present mood doesn't reflect that.

"Are you okay?" Quinn asks.

"Yeah," Harry answers, "Just a lot on my mind."

"Your grandparents, right?"

Harry waves his hand in a 'so so' motion. "Sort of. Not really. Just, you know, family expectations."

Quinn grimaces, chagrined, sympathetic, and understanding. "Did you want to talk about it?"

"Not really."

"Well, if you change your mind…"

He smiles, and squeezes her hand. "I'll let you know."

-!- -#-

The WMHS basketball club fields two teams for each gender: JV, and Varsity. A dude named Graham Montague is the captain of the varsity team, and he meets the new JV team - Finn, Harry, Puck, Matt, Mike, and their three reserves - in the locker room. He's a senior, tall, broad, and somewhat hostile, but he informs them of what they need to know without complaint, and then barks at them to be on the court in 10 minutes, or expect to do half-court suicides.

Suffice to say, they hustle.

The thing is with the JV and Varsity basketball teams? They're already established, and they have a record of excellence. They've been state champions for the last four years, and Harry, Finn, Mike, Matt, and Puck (and their reserves) are expected to continue the record of wins. As such, the pressure is somewhat intimidating, and Harry's absurdly terrified of failure.

On the upside, the five of them already know how to work together, and the fact is sure to serve them well on the court.

At least, Harry hopes so.

"Potter," Cedric Diggory greets him with a fist bump, "Welcome to the team, dude."

"Thanks, man," Harry acknowledges. He introduces his friends, none of whom Cedric's actually met properly, and then asks, "What can we expect today?"

"Warm-ups and stretches, some drills, and then a scrimmage for the last half hour, maybe. Morning sessions are for fitness, strength-building, endurance and all that. Afternoons are for team-building, game skills and strategy."

Their coach arrives then, a tall, androgynous lady by the name of ROlanda Hooch. SHe's a stern, no-nonsense woman whom also happens to coach the male and female soccer teams, and she is utterly intimidating. She's not the frightening and psychotic blend of Coach Sylvester, mercifully, but nevertheless, Harry quickly finds himself unwilling to get on her bad side.

Instead, he follows her direction without complaint, and endures.

By the end of the training session, he's exhausted, and he has no idea how he'll make it through his Karate class that evening. It's not for another couple of hours, in which he intends to chow down on a quick dinner and make some headway on his homework, but damn, it's been a long day already.

"You need a lift to the centre?" Mike asks. His dad's the Karate instructor, so Mike takes the class by default. He's actually already a first dan black belt, but as far as Mike's domineering father is concerned, there's always room for improvement.

"No," Harry declines, "Thanks, though."

Mike nods his acknowledgement, absently eats the last of his third granola bar, and watches as their new teammates steadily depart the parking lot. Some of them are walking, some of them are in cars, some of them wait for the activities bus, and both of their pick-ups are running late. "Coach Hooch is a hardass, yeah?"

"Yeah," Harry agrees, "Effective, though. The guys on the soccer team have a lot of respect for her."

"It's no wonder," Mike shrugs, "Her teams are winners."

"Can't argue that."

They sit in an easy, companionable silence until they're joined by the girls, recently released from their own training session. They look as worn as Harry feels, but they also look clean, and Harry assumes - correctly - that they've taken advantage of the locker room showers.

"You guys stink," Santana bluntly informs them.

"We know," Harry and Mike answer, simultaneous and monotone.

Mike explains further, "We've got a Karate class in a couple of hours. Didn't want to shower, only to shower again later."

Santana concedes to their logic with a nod. "You look wrecked, though."

"Feel it, too," Harry answers. "Long ass day."

"Poor baby," Quinn teases.

"I know," Harry answers, and leans into his girlfriend, "Pity me."

Quinn palms his face, laughing. "Keep dreaming."

"About you? Happily."

Quinn scoffs, but there's a pleased smile on her face. "Lame."

Harry shrugs, unfazed. "I try."

As the five of them descend into idle conversation, a sleek black Jaguar pulls into the parking lot, and slows to a stop in front of them. The passenger side window winds down, and Dorea Black leans out, smiling. Harry can see his grandfather in the driver's seat, and he honestly has to wonder what the actual fuck they are doing there, and with a car, no less.

"Are you coming, or what, Henry? Katherine is waiting."

Numbly, Harry does as he is told, and wilfully ignores the bug-eyed stares at his back. That… that he can't deal with right now.

He deposits his bags in the boot, drops mindlessly into the backseat, and waves at his speechless friends out the window. Then they are off, and he is ready for this hellish day to be over.


	19. Part 1: Chapter 19: The Long Day Is Over

**Welcome to the Jungle**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter, or Glee. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Part One: Fifteen**

 **Chapter Nineteen: The Long Day Is Over**

That evening, Mike doesn't ask him about his grandparents. Instead, he helps Harry with the newest kata he's learned, and then they spend a while sparring while their teacher, Sensei Nick, helps out the others. Mike kicks his ass, but it's a close thing. Mike's not familiar with the Tae-Kwan-Do and Jujitsu forms Harry occasionally employs, but he _is_ a black belt in Karate and a blue belt in Judo, and it's certainly an experience Harry won't soon forget.

"Same time Thursday?"

Mike grins. "You're on, dude."

In the foyer of the community centre, Kate's in an animated conversation with a couple of the girls in their Karate class. Their in the same grade as her, though attending another school, and Harry's already forgotten their names. They're nice though, if a little boy crazy, and Harry avoids them like the plague.

Mike does, too.

"Man, I can't wait until Thanksgiving."

"You and me both, dude," Harry answers. "Don't know how you do it."

On top of his involvement in the Debating and Scholastic Decathlon teams, his two Martial Arts classes, the basketball training, and his regular academic commitments, Mike works a couple of shifts at his uncle's Chinese restaurant each week, attends a few dance classes, and also has to sit through a piano lesson every Wednesday. Through it all, he has somehow maintained a fairly active social life, and Harry feels exhausted just thinking about it.

"I got mad skills, man."

Harry laughs. "Clearly."

"How does Quinn deal with everything? You're pretty busy too, right?"

Harry shrugs. "She's got her own things, you know? Her youth group and volunteering and all that. We manage."

Mike nods his acknowledgement. "That's cool, dude. You're lucky she gets it."

"Brittany doesn't?"

"Brittany doesn't really give a shit, to be honest," Mike shrugs, "I mean, she's awesome, but we're not serious. We're just… enjoying each other's company."

"Nice." They bump fists. "I guess I'm not really surprised. You and Hermione seem to have something going on…?"

Mike frowns. "Not really. I mean, I like her a lot, but as long as she's with Krum, I'm not going to make a move. That's just… not cool."

Harry nods his acknowledgement, unsure of what to say, or do. He can respect Mike's stance on the matter, however, but as Harry's phone buzzes with a message that his father's waiting outside, they don't speak more about it.

"Catch you later, man," Mike bids.

"Yeah, tomorrow morning, bright and early," Harry grimaces. Mike laughs. "See you, mate."

Kate's already gotten the message, so Harry's unsurprised when she pulls away from a group hug with her new friends to join him at the front door. They step outside, careful to take stock of their surroundings, and find their father's car idling in the pick-up zone.

"Shotgun front," Kate declares, and hurries towards the car. It's cold out, and so Harry follows her lead, disgruntled when Kate blasts Lady Gaga from her iPod via the car's speakers.

"Not so loud, Katherine, Christ," James chides.

Kate acquiesces with a huff, and glares moodily out of the passenger side window. Harry leans between the two front seats, eyes on his father's face.

"Are we stopping for dinner? I'm starving."

"You ate literally two hours ago," Kate opines, "How the hell are you hungry _now_?"

He tugs at the end of her braid. "How the hell are you not?"

Their dad intervenes before Kate can lash out, and Harry chuckles behind them both. "Your mum's left you some dinner. It's roast beef."

Satisfied with that answer, Harry settles back in his seat, and spends the car ride home texting his friends. Before he knows it, however, they've made it home, and he descends, eagerly, upon the food that has been left for him. As his father had said, it's roast beef, with a side of loaded potatoes, steamed vegetables, and gravy, and as expected, it tastes fantastic.

"Where's Nain and Taid?" Kate asks.

"In the apartment," James answers, "They're determined not to intrude on our lives any more than they have to."

"But I _like_ that they're here."

James smiles. "Maybe you should tell them that."

Kate nods to herself, determined. "Maybe I will."

-!- -#-

After understanding the basics, Geometry isn't particularly difficult. It is, however, time-consuming, which is why he doesn't even _think_ about it until he's finished the rest of the homework he has due the following day, finished at least 50 per cent of what's due throughout the week, and completed all of his readings for good measure. Blessedly, the 24 page Geometry booklet isn't due until Friday, but that still leaves him with at least six pages to complete before he calls it a night.

No wonder Puck was bitching about it earlier.

He kind of wants to bitch about it, too.

All the same, he picks up his pencil with a reluctant sigh, and resigns himself to the fact that he probably won't get an opportunity to play some COD that night. He's already exhausted, he still has to put his laundry (presently in the wash) in the dryer, and the shower is more or less calling his name.

And then there is Quinn, of course, whom he has texted intermittently all evening, whom he still needs to have a conversation with about his (brief) sexual history, whom has taken to calling him at 11 o'clock, every night, to chat a while before she goes to bed.

He wonders if she's going to ask about his grandparents, and he sort of hopes she doesn't.

It's not that he doesn't trust her, per se, but rather, it's the fact that when people find out, their attitudes always change. It's not always a conscious thing, but it's noticeable regardless, and it's also why Harry's barely stayed in contact with the friends he'd made in Chicago.

He doesn't want his heritage, or his family's wealth, to impact the relationships he's made here. He's not ashamed, nor embarrassed, by it - in fact, he's rather proud of his family's history, of the accomplishments they've made over the generations - but for once in his life, he'd just like to be one of the guys, no more, and no less.

He's kidding himself, of course - he'll _never_ get to be 'one of the guys' - but a guy can dream, at least..

-!- -#-

Quinn calls when he's in the laundry, transferring his clothes from the washer to the dryer. His father's already locked up the house, the alarm set, and the air is chilled with the approach of winter. As far as he can tell, no one else is up, and the thought is oddly isolating.

"Hey," he greets her, "How has your night been?"

Uneventful," Quinn replies. "How's yours?"

"Long. Geometry's a drag."

As he closes the dryer, and ensures it's started it's spin cycle, Quinn huffs a laugh. "Sucks to be you."

"I will remember this conversation in 12 months, and I will feel no sympathy for your suffering."

Quinn laughs outright then, and Harry smiles despite himself. He's fond of her laugh, fond of _making_ her laugh, and he's sure it's something he'd be happy to do for a long time to come. The thought is somewhat terrifying, the fact he's prepared to commit to Quinn for however long she'll have him, and he opts not to think too deeply about it.

"I promise not to hold it against you, in that case."

"Why thank you," Harry exaggerates an English accent, "You're too kind."

He can imagine Quinn's smirk on the other end of the line. "I do try."

Alas, the light-hearted conversation doesn't last. Quinn eventually turns the topic to the revelations of Friday night's party, and although unsurprised by the change in subject, it's not something he's not particularly eager to talk about. He does so, regardless.

"THere's really only been one girl before you, first kiss notwithstanding. Her name was Marie Bernard, and last year, we spent about five months messing around. We weren't really dating - at least, we never labelled anything - but nothing really came of it. She found out her family would be moving back to France, I found out we were moving to Ohio, and I guess neither of us wanted to deal with the eventual breakup. At least, that's why I never bothered."

"Did you love her?"

"No, not really. I mean, I always knew we were a temporary thing. She's still a friend, but just… no. No lingering feelings, or whatever. It was mostly physical, I think. Curiosity, even."

"And, um, do you expect that?"

Harry blinked, startled. "What? No. I'm not expecting you to put out, or whatever, Q. I mean, I knew going into this that you're serious about your promise, and I'm not about to pressure you into disregarding that. That's just… that'd be a douche thing to do."

Quinn sighs on the other end of the line. "Thanks. I… I guess I needed to hear that."

Harry nods, and rolls his eyes, because duh, of course his girlfriend can't see him do it. "It's fine, Q. It's important."

As Quinn falls thoughtfully silent, Harry packs up everything he'll need for the following day. His school things, his work uniform, a change of clothes to wear after his morning training session with the basketball team. As he does, Linkin Park filters from his speakers, and he wonders idly if he ought to switch to something a little more mainstream.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah," Quinn answers, "It's just… sometimes it's really easy to forget I've only known you for a few months. It sometimes feels like you've always been here."

"The feeling is mutual, I guess? Sometimes I forget, too."

They chat a while longer, about lighter, inconsequential things, before Quinn calls it a night. After a shower, he does the same, and it's not long before he is out like a light.

The next thing Harry knows, his alarm is shrill in his ears, and he's not sure he's slept at all.


	20. Part 1: Chapter 20: All Good Things

**Welcome to the Jungle**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter, or Glee. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Part One: Fifteen**

 **Chapter Twenty: All Good Things (Come to an End)**

Finn doesn't show up to Tuesday morning's training session, and Coach Hooch isn't impressed. She works with the rest of them in the gym, pushing them through a series of progressively difficult calisthenics while she lectures them about the value of discipline, dedication, and commitment. It's gruelling, and by the time it's over, Harry's sure he's going to up-chuck all over the locker room.

That's where Cedric finds him, hunched over his knees while his teammates drag themselves through the showers. One of the reserves, Roger Malone, has already been sick in one of the toilet cubicles, and Harry's determined not to follow suit.

He just needs a minute. Maybe 10.

"Who bailed?" Cedric asks. He's drenched in sweat, having just spent the last hour alternating between weightlifting and spotting his varsity teammates under the supervision of HOoch's assistant coach, and yet, he looks refreshed and energised, and entirely too ready for the rest of his day. Harry can't comprehend it.

).

"Hudson," Matt answers. "How'd you know?"

"Because this?" He gestures vaguely at Harry, still hunched over himself, and Roger, who is still a concerning shade of greenish-grey, "Only happens when someone ditches a training session without a valid reason."

"I'm going to punch that fuckre in the face," Puck says decisively.

"I'll hold him down for you," Mike contributes.

Harry groans. "I'm dead. This must be hell."

"Should probably tell the dude that if he misses one more training session, he's benched. If he misses a third, he's off the team," Cedric advises, "Coach Hooch has no tolerance for deadweight. Oh, and he can kiss any chance of captaincy goodbye."

Matt, Mike, Puck, and Harry glance between themselves. They have no idea how many training sessions for football Finn had bailed on throughout the season, but there was definitely a lot more than three.

Evidently, Coach Hooch won't be quite as tolerant of Finn's nonsense as Coach Tanaka, and so long as he's on the team, they'll be the sorry bastards expected to pick up the slack.

To Harry, it's abundantly clear that something has got to give. Whether it's Finn's place on the team, or his lackadaisical attitude to everything, Harry doesn't give a shit. All he knows is that he can't and won't endure another training session from hell. Mike and Matt, when he glances at them, appear resolved - presumably for the same reason - but Puck's expression is inscrutable.

Unsure of what's percolating through his friend's brain, and not too eager to find out, Harry reluctantly gets to his feet, and trudges his way through a shower. Afterwards, he gets dressed on autopilot, and by the time he's ready to leave the locker room, almost everyone else is already gone.

The exception is Mike, who waits to talk to him by the doors.

"Puck's gone to talk to Finn," Mike informs him.

"Good luck to him," Harry answers.

"Hope he shapes up."

"He'd better."

They reach their English classroom as the first bell rings, and Harry has to smile at the sight that awaits him there. Quinn and Hermione are in the midst of an animated conversation in seats angled towards each other, and the fact is gratifying. It doesn't matter that Hermione's a so called loser, or that Quinn used to contribute to making her life miserable, because by some miracle, they've actually become _friends_.

Of course, Quinn hasn't stopped picking on _other_ students - Rachel Berry, in particular - but this? It's better than nothing.

"We're getting our marks back today," Mike recalls.

"Yeah," Harry confirms. He drops heavily into the seat behind Quinn, and produces the things he'll need for class. "How do you think you went?"

"Guess we'll find out."

Hermione gets an A+. Quinn and Mike both receive A's. Harry scores an A-, and he's satisfied with that.

It's better than he'd expected.

-!- -#-

Until lunch, Harry's day passes slowly, monotonous and tiresome, as though he's trudging through molasses. Puck's in a shit mood through Geometry, and in Biology, they've got a substitute teacher. As such, they're stuck watching a video about the effects of smoking on the respiratory system, and Quinn spends the hour poking him awake every time he dozes off over his books.

Social Studies is a haze of names, dates, and locations, Japanese a tedious blur of aural repetition, and by the time his lunch hour rolls around, Harry's ready to stage a revolt.

"All right," Santana drops her lunch tray onto their usual table. She opts to sit directly in front of him, "Can you explain to me why the fuck Dorea Black picked you up yesterday?"

Finn blinks, bemused. "Who?"

There's a moment of dumbfounded silence where no one's sure whether or not Finn's joking, but it's quickly obvious that, actually, he's completely serious. Even Brittany, who spends most of her life off with the fairies, looks at Finn like he's an idiot, and Harry has no idea what to say.

Blessedly, Quinn doesn't have the same problem.

"Only one of the most inspirational women of her generation," she answers, "And I told you, Santana, you were imagining things. It was dark out. Why the hell would she be in Lima?"

Quinn gives him the perfect opportunity to lie, to brush it off as a result of the dim lighting and distance. It's tempting to, but realistically, if he does, it'll return to bite him in the ass later. Thus, he opts to tell the truth instead.

Harry coughs, awkward and uncomfortable. They all turn to him, expectant. "That'd be because she's my grandmother."

"I call bullshit," Santana insists.

Harry's irritation flares. "Why the fuck would I lie about that?"

"Why the fuck haven't you mentioned anything before now?"

"Because it's no one's goddamn business?" He thought that would be obvious. "I don't see you asking anyone else about their fucking grandparents, Jesus!"

They glare at each other for an interminably long moment, but as the others watch, Santana backs down, her gaze averted. She still has her arms crossed over her chest, defensive, but the air of confrontation bleeds out of her within the space of a few breaths, and in response, Harry tries to relax, too.

He mostly fails.

The silence that follows is uncomfortable, and Harry's careful to avoid eye contact with anyone else at the table. He picks mindlessly at his pizza instead, and contemplates a tactical retreat. He _really_ doesn't want to deal with this.

Puck clears his throat, and says wryly, "Well, that was entertaining."

Mike elbows him in the side, unimpressed, but Harry relaxes enough to offer his friend a half-hearted smile. He's still careful to avoid Quinn and Santana's scrutinising glares, but he chats with the guys about their preferred version of Halo®, and the insuing hour is probably the longest of his life.

Eventually, however, the bell that heralds the end of lunch blares to life, and they disperse.

Quinn, before she heads towards her Home Economics class, wraps her fingers around his wrist. In response, Harry stops in his tracks, but he refuses to meet her gaze.

"Hey," she says, "Look at me, okay?"

Reluctantly, Harry acquiesces. Quinn's expression is difficult to place, but she doesn't give him much of a chance to decipher it.

"Okay, so we've kind of got to talk about this. Not now, obviously, but soon. Can we meet up when you're done with work?"

Wordlessly, Harry nods his confirmation.

"All right, I'll meet you out the front of the Steam House after your shift." She hesitates briefly, and then engulfs him in a hug. "Don't worry. You matter to me because you're you, not because of your family."

Then Quinn is racing out of the cafeteria, and Harry really needs to get to his art class, but his feet are rooted to the floor, because Quinn's last statement? It's the best thing he's heard all day.


	21. Part 1: Chapter 21: Talk to Me

**Welcome to the Jungle**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter, or Glee. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Part One: Fifteen**

 **Chapter Twenty-One: Talk to Me**

Critical Thinking, as an elective he attends at his parents' insistence, is probably the weirdest, most thought-provoking class in his week. It's on Tuesday afternoons, at the same time most of his peers have Study Hall, and more often than not, it's rather mentally draining. The teacher, an unremarkable looking fellow with laughter lines and thinning hair, is actually part of the English and History faculty, and he is adamant that the ability to think critically, to analyse, to question - always to question - is the most important thing they'll ever acquire in school.

In saying that, Harry shares the class with only eight others. Mike is one of them, as is Hermione and Santana, but he's never spoken with any of the others outside of their regular, teacher-mandated discussions.

At present, Santana's slouched in her seat, entertaining herself with a chatterbox, and Mike's leant back on the hind-legs of his chair, struggling to balance a pencil on the bridge of his nose. Hermione's working on English study, her copy of 'The Crucible' accompanied by a mechanical pencil and a pad of sticky notes. She's set herself the task of identifying notable themes within the text, and as such, she's lost completely in a world of her own making.

Harry casts his gaze over the room, over his listless classmates, and meets the eyes of Kurt Hummel. He's tall and thin, with delicate, almost feminine features, and he is one of the football teams' favourite targets. In saying that, Harry almost expects him to look away, shamefaced, but he does not. Instead, Kurt Hummel looks back at him from across the room, almost defiant, and Harry's a little impressed despite himself.

It's no wonder the douche canoes on the football team still target him. Kurt Hummel is a lot tougher than he appears, and to the others, it's become a challenge to break him.

He huffs a laugh, amused, and turns towards the front of the classroom. As he does so, their teacher, Mr Sinclair, barges into the room in his usual frazzled, breathless state. The door slams against the wall, Hermione startles with a squeak, Santana jolts up from her mindless slouch, and Mike's chair drops onto all four legs with a rough clatter and an unpleasant screech.

"Sorry I'm late," Sinclair babbles, "My juniors are studying Shakespeare, and of course, I need to answer their questions, but God help me, if I have to explain the differences between thee, thou, thy, and thine one more time…"

He trails off into incomprehensible rambling, and Harry opens his notebook to a blank page. He dates it absently as Sinclair gets himself sorted, and it takes a few more minutes for the man to get their class underway.

"All right, a question for all of you. We'll be discussing it for half an hour, and if I'm pleased by how the discussion goes, you can take off a little early."

"Yippee," Santana deadpans. Hermione smothers a laugh.

Mr Sinclair gives them a scenario from World War II, regarding the influx of immigrants into the United States, and Harry's not the only one a little uncomfortable with it. Rachel Berry, across the circle, fidgets in her seat. Santana crosses her arms over her chest, defensive. Mike clears his throat, loud in the pervading silence, and then avoids eye contact with everyone.

"Using what critical thinking tools I've already taught you, I want you to share your opinion, and then justify it. Feel free to disagree and debate - _debate,_ Miss Lopez, - between yourselves. Remember, the only wrong answer here is the one that can't be rationalised. Have at it."

Mr Sinclair makes himself comfortable on top of one of the desks, and Harry occupies himself with writing the problem down in his notebook. It doesn't take him long, however, and he spends a few more minutes contemplating which ways he might look at the question. It takes his mind off other things - like the conversation he's due to have with Quinn in a few hours - but he still has no desire to contribute to the discussion that's not yet begun.

Across the circle, Rachel Berry straightens out her pleated skirt, clears her throat, and stubbornly refuses to wilt under the attention that lands on her. Harry appreciates her legs more than he perhaps should - seriously, how can someone so short have such long legs? - and then makes a valiant attempt to focus on what she has to say.

"As most of you likely know, I'm Jewish. My biological mother's family originates from Poland, my father's family is from Austria. For as long as I can remember, I've heard stories from my grandparents about their family lost in World War II. Their parents, their siblings, their friends. With that in mind, I am firmly of the opinion that the US government's stance on European refugees should have been a lot less restrictive than it was. It would have saved a lot more lives."

"What about the drain on resources?" Hermione challenges. It's no surprise, really. Hermione's a pragmatist at heart, and moreover, Harry's fairly certain she takes a certain degree of pleasure from stirring the pot. "A lot of these people wouldn't have been able to speak English. How could they have contributed to society without being a burden on others? _Moreover_ , how could the US government guarantee that these people weren't German spies, unwilling or not?"

That, predictably, sets a cat among the pigeons, and even as Hummel nods his agreement, Berry isn't the only one outraged. Santana's swearing at Hermione in Spanish, Rachel's descended into rapid-fire Yiddish, and Mr Sinclair suddenly looks like he's regretting all of the choices in his life that's led him to this point. Harry, in accordance with Berry but for different reasons, throws in his two cents, Mike and Santana get properly involved, and Harry comes to the conclusion that the 'discussion' is the most fun he's had all day.

-!- -#-

After the Steam House is closed up for the day, Harry and Quinn steal a lift home with Harry's mum, Lily. It's vaguely awkward, but Quinn spends the trip telling him about her meeting with the school's Christ Crusaders - a forum of likeminded, devout, Christian students - and it's not quite as uncomfortable as it could be. Nevertheless, it's still a relief to make it home, and Harry's quick to shepherd Quinn downstairs, away from the scrutiny of his family. He's told to keep his bedroom door open - what good that is when he's got an entire storey between them, Harry can't fathom - but rather than test his parents' patience, he begrudgingly does what he's told.

"Make yourself comfortable," Harry gestures vaguely at his room. It's the first time Quinn's been inside it, and as she settles on the edge of his bed, she studies everything with an open, unabashed sense of curiosity.

With off-white walls and a nondescript brown carpet, Harry's bedroom isn't anything particularly glamorous. He's got a twin-sized bed wedged in one corner, with a bedside table beside it, on which is a couple of dogeared novels and an empty water bottle. The only other furniture in his room consists of a study desk wedged into the corner right of his door, and the over-stuffed bookshelf beside it. It's cluttered with novels, with figurines, with trophies and photographs, and Harry hopes - fruitlessly - that Quinn doesn't pay attention to it.

"I didn't know you play guitar." Her focus is on the acoustic steel-string propped up on a stand next to his bedside table, well-worn and well-loved.

"I don't really have the time anymore, but yeah," he shrugs, "I dabble. "The guitar was my grandfather's, on my mother's side. Mum gave it to me when I turned 13."

"Will you play for me?"

"What, now?"

Quinn shrugs, suddenly hesitant. "I mean, only if you _want_ to."

Harry hesitates, but with Quinn's open, hopeful face, he relents with a nod. He hasn't played in ages, and he hasn't got anything in particular prepared, but there are a few pieces he can probably perform in his sleep, and it's one of those songs he resorts to now.

"All right," he settles beside Quinn on the edge of his bed, his guitar in his lap, and fiddles with the tuning pegs until he's satisfied with the sound, "It's been a while, and I technically should probably warmup before I do this, but whatever. Just don't tell Kate. I'll never hear the end of it, otherwise."

With one of her index fingers, Quinn draws an X over her heart, and without ado, Harry dives straight into the introduction of 'Take It Easy' by the Eagles. It's one of his mother's favourite songs, one of the first he learned on guitar, and a whole lot easier to play than 'Hotel California', too.

Quinn listens raptly, a smile on her face, and afterwards, she claps.

"You're good," she compliments, "When you said you dabble, I figured you were just, you know, average, but I guess you've had lessons?"

"Yeah," Harry confirms, "Not for guitar, but I've had vocal coaching. Piano and cello lessons, too."

"You're one of those annoying people who happen to be good at everything, right?" Quinn asks. She's half joking.

"Not really. At least, I don't think so."

As he returns his guitar to it's accompanying stand, Quinn stands up to study the odds and ends on his shelves. There are photos of him, of he and Kate, being silly, having fun, pulling pranks. There are photos of friends, teams, music groups come and gone. There's a formal photo of Harry with his dad, with his mum, with both of them, with all four of his grandparents and then some. There are trophies, medals, pennants and ribbons.

And then, of course, there are books.

Most of them are hand-me-downs from his parents, Stephen King and Douglas Adams and George R R Martin. There are others though, Tolkien, the Bronte sisters, Jane Austen. There's 'Catcher in the Rye', and 'Catch 22', and 'The Great Gatsby', nestled between works like 'The Chronicles of Narnia' and 'His Dark Materials'. He hasn't read them all - far from it, in fact - but he's working on it, and that's better than nothing.

"What, no comics?"

"No, not any more."

They'd been left behind in Chicago, packed up in a box, and donated to his local 'Daily Planet' for other enthusiasts to appreciate. He'd lost interest in them at some vague, indistinct point during middle school, and as he'd been packing up his shit before his sojourn to Wales, he'd had no desire to keep them any longer. He'd barely thought about them since.

"Your family seems pretty close."

Harry shrugs. "We are, I guess. I haven't really thought about it. It just… is."

"But you don't like to talk about your grandparents?"

"I like to talk about them just fine. It's their jobs I don't care to mention."

"Why?"

"It always changes things," Harry answers bitterly, "Suddenly, I'm a snob because I don't eat cafeteria food, or I'm a dick because I don't pay for dinner, or I'm a show-off if I _do_. Never mind I can't touch my trust fund until I'm 21, and the only money I _can_ depend on is whatever I earn myself, and the 25 dollars I get each week from my parents."

Quinn turns away from the shelves, approaches him where he sits on the edge of his bed, and then tugs him into a hug. SHe's standing, and his face is far closer to her boobs than he'd expected to be at this point in their relationship, but he hugs her back regardless, and the gesture of comfort is more appreciated than he cares to admit.

"It won't change things here," Quinn stubbornly declares, "I won't let it."

Harry doesn't think it'll happen the way Quinn wants, but he's not about to burst her bubble. Instead, as she settles beside him on his bed, he contents himself with cuddling her, with conversation about anything and everything under the sun, and there is nowhere else he'd rather be.


	22. Part 1: Chapter 22: No Surprise

**Welcome to the Jungle**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter, or Glee. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Part One: Fifteen**

 **Chapter Twenty-Two: No Surprise**

When Hermione and Viktor break up, it's not a public spectacle. It's not obvious, it's not a big deal among the rest of their peers, and to Harry, it's not much of a surprise, either. Hermione's mature for their age, undeniably, but Viktor, who is planning for his future after high school, is at a completely different point in his life, and Harry's more surprised that the breakup had not come sooner.

He doesn't admit that, of course, and Hermione doesn't ask for his opinion. Instead, her plan seems to be to endure the last few days of school until the Thanksgiving weekend, to pretend that nothing is wrong until then, and to avoid any conversation regarding relationships, soccer, and Viktor Krum as humanly possible.

It's a little awkward, in all honesty. Ron and Harry genuinely consider the older guy a friend, completely separate from his relationship with Hermione, and it's something of a wrench to be caught between them. There's relief in the knowledge that neither Viktor nor Hermione expect them to take sides in the breakup, relatively amicable as it is, but all the same…

"Why do you think they broke up?" Quinn wonders.

Harry shrugs. "Don't know. It's not my business, so I didn't ask."

Quinn sighs, fondly exasperated. "You're such a guy."

Harry grins. "I try."

Mock unimpressed by that, Quinn drags him into a playful wrestling match that ends with grass stains, rumpled clothes, and a long, entirely pleasant make-out session. He's not too sure how, but Quinn's hands wind up beneath his shirt, and although Harry's not opposed to it, he's also very much aware of the fact that they're in Quinn's backyard, and Mr and Mrs Fabray are due home any minute now.

With that in mind, Harry finds the will in himself to slow things down, though it's a struggle. His heart still pounds, and he's still sporting a hard-on Quinn is no doubt aware of, but at the very least, they're not about to be caught in a compromising position by Quinn's very strict, very traditional, very religious parents.

"You know," Quinn muses, stretched out on top of him. She's propped herself up on her elbows, has spent the last few moments studying his face, and he's a little self-conscious under her scrutiny. "You've got the prettiest eyes. It's really not fair."

"Um, thanks?" Marie had said something similar, but he's sure mentioning that wouldn't be appreciated. "I happen to think your eyes are very pretty, myself."

Her eyes are green, too, though not the same shade. They're lighter, flecked with splashes of gold and brown, and he's spent an embarrassing amount of time attempting to capture the image of them on paper. Thus far, he's not been successful.

"You're sweet." Quinn kisses the tip of his nose, and then laughs, oddly giddy. He likes her best like this, carefree and playful, and he doesn't want this moment to end. He doesn't want to return to the reality that awaits them beyond the confines of Quinn's yard, where school, and peer pressure, and family expectations govern everything. He isn't sure if he loves Quinn - surely, it's too soon for that? - but either way, he's sure that if he could, he would freely, happily stay in this moment forever.

"If you tell anyone, I'll deny it."

"Don't worry, you're secret's safe with me." She pats his cheek and offers him a condescending smile. In retaliation, he tickles her sides, merciless. Quinn laughs and squirms, and then concedes with a breathless, "Uncle!"

Still smiling, she sprawls out beside him, exactly where she'd started, and they pass the time watching the clouds go by. Although the chill of winter has set in, and they're due for snow any day now, it's restful there, Quinn's fingers entwined in his, and that's how Mr and Mrs Fabray find them, lightheartedly squabbling over whether or not one cloud in particular is a vase, or perhaps a fish.

As he always does, Harry gets up to greet them.

He's met Quinn's parents a few times now, Mr Fabray more than his wife, but both of them often enough to greet them less formally than he would otherwise. All the same, he's still as nervous as he was the first time he'd met them as Quinn's boyfriend, and he struggles to imagine a day when he _won't_ be.

"Will you be staying for dinner?" Mrs Fabray asks him. They've moved inside, and while Mr Fabray retreats into his study, the rest of them cluster in the kitchen with mugs of hot chocolate, freshly baked biscuits (re: cookies), and the soft strains of Sarah McLachlan filtering from a small, portable stereo.

"Thank you for the offer, Mrs Fabray, but I can't tonight."

With his grandparents in town, and staying indefinitely, his parents have implemented the rule of Sunday night family dinners. Even if Harry was inclined to protest (which he isn't), his presence is nonnegotiable, and the combined might of James and Lily Potter is a force to be reckoned with.

"Next time, then."

"I wouldn't miss it, Mrs Fabray."

-!- -#-

In truth, Harry doesn't mind the Sunday night dinners. He'd never admit it to his friends, but he loves spending time with both of his grandparents. Their experiences throughout the decades offer them an insight about life Harry will likely never obtain, but it's always simultaneously humbling and amazing to hear the stories they have to share. From Dorea Black's early years spent in German-occupied France, to Charles Potter's adolescence in Eton College, from his time in the Korean War to all the notable people - Coco Chanel, Eleanor Roosevelt, Helena Rubinstein, and then some - they've both encountered over the years. It's intimidating and awe-inspiring in one fell swoop, and Harry doesn't think he'll ever grow tired of it.

On this particular Sunday, however, Kate's their entertainment for the evening, and she soaks up the attention like a sponge. Her voice is strong and clear, the piano an extension of her being as she plays. SHe's good - very much so, in fact - and she's only guaranteed to get better as time goes on. She wants to be famous, wants to see her name up in lights, and perhaps Harry's biased, but he's sure his sister has the talent to reach her dreams.

He'll never tell her that, naturally. It's his job as Kate's older brother to keep her humble, and she's already got enough people telling her as is, besides.

"Won't you play for us, Henry?" Dorea asks. It's not much of a request, and Harry knows better than to protest.

He sighs internally, lifts himself from his place slouched in the recliner, and approaches the piano. Kate makes way for him, claims his seat as her own, and then laughs at the face he pulls in response.

"What would you like to hear, Nain?"

Harry runs through a few scales, and it feels as though he's returned to an old friend. He's never been quite as fond of music as his sister, but that's only because he's never cared much for making a career out of it. He'll admit, freely, that there's a special place in his heart for performing, for playing his piano or guitar, right alongside his fondness for art, for painting and drawing, and even sculpting. In fact, he's actually missed it, and although he hasn't got anything new prepared for his grandparents, it's suddenly not so much of a chore to play for them.

He plays for an hour, and by the time he's done, it's almost 10 o'clock. Kate's shepherded off to get ready for bed, Harry's strongly encouraged to do the same, and both of his grandparents make their way towards the garage. There's a door there that's the internal access point for their temporary apartment, tucked away in a corner, and hidden by the extra fridge. There's a narrow balcony and staircase that provides the secondary (and external) access, but as far as Harry can tell, neither of his grandparents care to use it.

His dad's just returned from locking up the house, ensuring the alarm is set, and taking out the trash when his phone starts to ring. His mother, who is clearing up the used wine glasses, stops to watch him carefully, and Harry, who has just begun to make his way downstairs, stills, too.

"Hey, Sirius, have you got any news for me?"

The rest goes unheard, since James retreats into his study, Lily in tow. The door clicks shut behind them, and Harry reluctantly descends downstairs. As he does so, he wonders about what on Earth Sirius has to say at three o'clock in the morning (GMT), and he wonders, also, if he'll ever find out.

Although Harry is, undeniably, curious, he's also afraid. In that vein, he hopes he'll never have to.


	23. Part 1: Chapter 23: Falling

**Welcome to the Jungle**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter, or Glee. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Part One: Fifteen**

 **Chapter Twenty-Three: Falling**

Thanksgiving comes and goes. Harry's family doesn't celebrate it, and although he and his sister are encouraged to take some time out of their day to reflect on what they are grateful for, Harry spends most of his day lazing around in sweats and a T-shirt, catching up on TV, playing video games, and sporadically texting the friends whom, like him, aren't rapt up in family, holidays, and/or religious obligations (re: Mike). Kate hangs out with him some, and they spend a few solid hours duking it out on Mario-Kart before his sister gets bored, and all in all, it's a pleasant, restful way to spend his Thursday.

Excepting his two shifts at the Steam House, the remainder of the weekend passes in a similar fashion, barring a couple of hours each night begrudgingly occupied with revision for his upcoming exams. In all, it's a wrench to return to wake up on Monday morning, to the daily grind of school, work, and basketball. The debating season is over, at least, which frees up a few hours of his week, but the next three weeks are going to be a hellish slog of studying, tests, and holiday anticipation, and Harry's mind is already on Colorado.

In saying that, it's good to see Quinn, bundled up in what passes for the cheerleaders' winter uniform. It's actually just a pair of WMHS sweatpants and the accompanying jacket over a long-sleeved shirt, coloured black, red, and white, respectively. He can't imagine they're particularly effective at keeping out the winter chill, but he'd probably be slapped if he asks if she's wearing anything underneath, and thus he refrains, and assumes Quinn can take care of herself.

"Hey," he greets her. She curls herself up in his space, her arms twined around his middle, and relaxes into his hug. "Are you all right?"

"It was a crazy weekend," Quinn answers, "I missed you. Like, a lot."

He hugs her tighter, fondly amused but pleased all the same, and presses a kiss into her hair. "I missed you too."

After an explanatory text to Hermione and Mike, they forego their usual study session to catch up instead. Between stolen moments and languid kisses in shadowed alcoves, it's mostly Quinn talking, regaling him with all of the stories of her weekend in Cleveland as Harry listens, comments intermittently, and asks occasional questions. As they speak, they wander aimlessly around the school, their hands clasped between them, and it's actually kind of nice. There aren't many people around right now, and those who are don't pay them any heed. There are no stares, no rumours, and Harry could easily get used to this.

Alas, it doesn't last. They're joined by Santana, Brittany, Mike, and Matt when they round the corner to the school's main thoroughfare, and Quinn is swept away by the girls to catch up on gossip, and whatever else it is they talk about when clustered in packs like that.

"Where's Puck?"

"Dude's on a roll today," Matt answers, "He locked Jacob Ben-Israel in a port-a-potty about twenty minutes ago, and right now he's working on getting Kurt Hummel into a dumpster."

"Finn's with him," Mike contributes, "The usual suspects, too."

The usual suspects consist of Dave Karofsky, Azimio Adams, and a few other guys on the football team, too. The novelty's worn off for the rest of them, and they mostly just stick to themselves, the cheerleading team, and their assorted hanger-ons, but Harry doesn't think the others will tire of it any time soon.

"Must be pissed about something," Harry observes.

"Probably," Mike concurs.

Matt shrugs, grimacing. "Doesn't mean he has to ruin anyone else's day."

"Not justifying it, but no one's ever that considerate in high school," Harry answers, "Maybe ever."

Matt concedes the point with a nod. "Touché."

Harry checks the time on his phone, and then excuses himself to retrieve his things for class from his locker. He's still got a good half hour before homeroom starts, but before then, he intends to stop by the Guidance Counsellor's office. He's not sure who else to see about enrolling in next semester's Driver's Ed course, but if it's not Miss Pillsbury, than he's sure she'll have the information of whom, exactly, he'll have to talk to.

-!- -#-

Miss Emma Pillsbury is a doe-eyed redhead with an extreme case of OCD, and when he knocks on the frame of her open office door, he can't say he's particularly surprised to find her cleaning her windows. She's got a pair of those enormous, industrial style yellow gloves on her hands, wielding a bottle of Windex in one hand and a toothbrush in the other, and he silently wonders if he ought to come back later.

"Oh!" Miss Pillsbury exclaims. She convulsively clutches at her weapons against germs and filth, and then carefully, purposefully deposits them on a side table. He's a little impressed - He can't imagine that was easy. "May I help you?"

"Um, I was wondering, do you handle schedule changes?"

Miss Pillsbury blinks, guileless, and then nods. "I do, yes. Were you hoping to change subjects? I believe it's rather late in the term, but I can help organise things for the winter term…"

"No," Harry denies, "Not for this semester. I was hoping to switch out of my Weightlifting elective on Friday afternoons for next term's Driver's Ed course. I'll be 15 and 5 months on the 31st of December."

"Oh, of course!" Miss Pillsbury beams, "I can certainly do that. Take a seat, and it will be done before your first class. Your name is Harry Potter, yes?"

"My given name's Henry," Harry offers. He waits for her to take a seat in the swivel chair behind her desk, and then lowers himself into the stuffed armchair across from her. "And thank you, I appreciate your help."

Because the WMHS Guidance Counsellor is actually exceedingly efficient, it doesn't take much time at all, and before Harry knows it, he's got a pamphlet dubiously called 'So You Think You Can Drive', and Miss Pillsbury has sent him on his way.

"Took you long enough," Mike grouses, "Where'd you go? Antarctica?"

"Yeah," Harry answers, "I went penguin sledding and everything."

Mike pauses briefly, stunned, and then asks, "Was that an Avatar reference?"

They meet gazes, laugh, and bump fists as Harry drops into the seat beside his friend. The girls, Hermione and Quinn, watch them with humoured expressions, but make no move to disrupt them as they descend into an animated discussion regarding the show.

It's then, as Quinn observes their arguably nonsensical conversation with a fond, endeared grin, that it occurs to Harry that he could actually fall in love with this girl. He's not there yet, but if things progress as they have been, then it's only a matter of time.

The thought is exhilarating, and utterly terrifying.

-!- -#-

On the notice boards all over school, there are sign-up sheets for clubs and activities available the following term. Although he's sure to regret it later, Harry signs up for the Euro Challenge - a nation-wide competition to facilitate an awareness and understanding of the European Union and the Euro, specifically - with Mike and Puck, and then, on a whim, he signs up for the French Club, too. Puck follows suit.

"Where are you going to get the time?" Mike asks. Beside him, Puck is texting someone, a smirk on his face, and Harry can't work out whether or not his friend is about to get into a whole world of trouble, or if he's going to be the one to instigate it.

"I figured I'd cut down my availability to only weekend shifts. I've got a decent amount saved up already, and since Mum and Dad have already agreed to go halves with me…"

"Not going to take advantage of the free time?"

Harry laughs. "I'd be bored out of my mind."

"I hear you, man."

They disperse before the hall monitor can bitch them out about loitering, and Harry begrudgingly makes his way to History. Matt's already there, slumped over his notebook, listless gaze on one of the pages therein, and Harry drops gracelessly into the seat beside him.

"I saw you joined the African American Society," Harry observes.

"Yeah," Matt confirms, "The yOung Democrat's Association, too. Figure I might as well, you know?"

"You want to go into politics?" Harry's a little surprised, though he shouldn't be. None of them have talked about what they want to do when they finish school - mostly because he's pretty sure Quinn's the only person in their group to have genuinely and seriously thought about it by this point - but somehow, it hasn't occurred to him that his other friends - excepting Hermione and Mike, perhaps - might be interested in politics, too.

Matt shrugs. "Maybe. I've thought about it. Not sure though."

Harry can relate. It's an idea he's toyed with on and off for a couple of years, influenced by Charles Potter's political career. No doubt, his grandfather's idealised his past to the nth degree, but somehow, it's a thought Harry can't shake for the life of him.

"Got a while to think about it."

Matt smiles. "That I do."

Their teacher arrives then, and informs them that they've got the next two weeks to self-study in his class. They're blessedly not limited to his subject, but he also takes the time to remind them that they've got a major test coming up - short answer, multiple choice, and a 2000 word essay to wrap things up - before he lets them do as they please.

"What are you going to work on?" Matt asks.

"Visual Art," Harry answers. He's been tasked with analysing a realist art piece by Henri Matisse, examining the techniques used, the historical and modern perceptions of the piece itself, and then to offer his opinion and justification regarding Matisse's work, and realist art in general. He's also been working on a portrait in class, using the techniques he's learned about this term, and it's probably the term project he's most anxious about.

He's never been too keen on showing off his art.

"Good fucking luck, dude."

Harry smiles wryly. "Thanks. I'll need it."

They chat idly as they work, mostly about Matt's Thanksgiving in Chicago. Even then, it's mostly about how he hates having to share a bathroom with his three older sisters - 18, 21, and 22, respectively - and also how his younger cousins - all 11 of them - are Satan-sent little trolls spawned for the purpose of making his life miserable.

Harry, who has no sympathy, laughs until he is breathless, and he can't remember the last time he's laughed so hard.

His good mood lasts until, once again, Finn skips training.

 **Author's Note:** Sort of a filler, sort of not. I'm having a hard time transitioning to the next arc of the story.


	24. Part 1: Chapter 24: Tell Me Why

**Welcome to the Jungle**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter, or Glee. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Part One: Fifteen**

 **Chapter Twenty-Four: Tell Me Why**

Coach Hooch runs them through the ringer once more, with calisthenics, with shooting, dribbling, and passing drills, and finally, with an utterly miserable session of suicides across the court.

Despite the talk with Puck, it's the second session Finn has bailed on, and a punch to the idiot's face looks increasingly more likely.

At least this time, none of them hurl, or come close to it. Perhaps it's because they know what to expect and thus have a few minutes to mentally prepare themselves, or perhaps it's because their collective endurance has improved rapidly since the start of pre-season training, but either way, it's a small blessing.

On the upside, Roger has the pleasure of taking Finn's place on the team while the latter is benched, and there's a malicious, gleeful part of Harry that looks forward to the moment Finn finds out that, actually, his actions have consequences, and not everyone is going to put up with his shit.

God, but Finn makes it really easy to dislike him.

"Are you guys all right?" Harry asks the others. They've successfully managed to drag themselves into the locker room, but none of them have done much else.

"Can we just unanimously vote Hudson off the team?" Roger entreats. Beside him, their second reserve, Gabriel, nods his agreement.

"I don't think we're allowed to do that," Harry regretfully answers.

"Well, I'm kicking his ass if he puts us through that shit again," Mike decides. The mental image is almost comical, because Mike is about 5'8", and Finn's brushing 6'1". Mind you, the height difference wouldn't do Finn any good against Mike, but all the same…,

"Get in line," Matt mutters beside him.

"I wonder if everything I say to him just goes in one ear and out the other," Puck muses. He's texting someone, his thumbs overly aggressive against the keypad of his phone, and there's a certain hostility to his expression that makes Harry assume - correctly - that it's Finn. "It's been three fucking weeks."

Before he can think about it, Harry hauls himself up from where he's slumped on one of the benches, and drags himself towards one of the showers. He and Mike have Karate later, but it feels as though he's just sweat out an ocean, and no doubt, he smells like the pits. As he does, the varsity team piles into the locker room, delayed by a post-training huddle with Hooch. They're in high spirits, clapping each other on the back and what have you, and it's a little like a kick in the teeth.

He grimaces, chagrined, and hustles through his shower. Then he gets dressed, winter clothes and all, and exits the locker room alongside Mike, Matt, and Puck. Gabriel and Roger have already bailed, and behind them, the varsity team has turned the locker room into an impromptu karaoke bar.

"That's a sight I'll never unsee," Mike says.

"Yeah," Matt huffs a laugh, "You and me both, dude."

"Should've filmed that shit," Puck laments.

"Maybe another day," Harry claps his friend on his shoulder, "I doubt this will be the last time."

And to no one else's surprise, it's not.

-!- -#-

Strictly speaking, Harry couldn't care less if Finn was on the team. He's tall, with a longer reach than most, but he's an unremarkable player with a tendency to hog the ball, and as far as Harry's concerned, Roger's a far better team player, and basketball player in general.

In fact, the only reason Finn is a starter at all is because as a former football player, one can assume that there's already an established rapport between he and the other starters (namely Harry, Mike, Matt, and Puck). Unfortunately, Coach Hooch, when determining this, hadn't known that Mike, Matt, and Harry were, at best, tolerant of Finn Hudson, and that hasn't changed in the weeks since..

In saying that, Finn _is_ one of his teammates, and regardless of whether or not Harry likes him off the court, a part of Harry feels obliged to make sure the dumbass is all right, and moreover, to make sure he's actually going to take his commitment to the team seriously from here on out.

As such, he texts Hudson with a warning that he'd be stopping by his place a little after eight, and after his Karate class, Harry does just that. He isn't going to be long, and thus his father and sister wait in the idling car, and Harry, meanwhile, jogs up to the front door, rings the doorbell, and waits.

It's Mrs Hudson who answers, and after a round of obligatory small talk, she shows him to the living room. Finn's there, chowing his way through a bag of Doritos while he watches an episode of Top Gear, and upon sight of him, Finn blinks, bemused.

"Dude, what are you wearing?"

"It's a Gi," Harry answers. Finn stares, uncomprehending. "My uniform for Karate, genius. Where were you this afternoon?"

Finn shrugs, defensive. "Didn't feel like going."

Harry stares, and repeats blankly, "You didn't feel like going."

Finn shrugs again. "The only reason I tried out is because it's Puck's favourite sport. I don't actually like it."

Harry shakes his head, incredulous. "That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard come out of your mouth. Jesus Christ, Hudson. You join a team, and you make a commitment to it. You don't just ditch whenever the fuck you feel like it. In what world is that even okay?"

Harry turns to leave then, irritated.

"Quit the team if you don't like it, I don't give a shit. Just know that since you've ditched twice, you're benched for the season. Ditch one more time, and don't even worry about quitting, Coach will kick your ass off the team _for_ you."

-!- -#-

In the car, he sets up a group text between himself and the others on the team (barring Finn) and informs them of Finn's excuse. None of them are impressed, justifiably, and he's inundated with a series of invectives at Finn's expense. It's not enough to drag him out of his irritation, but it's good to know they're all (even Puck) on the same page where their last teammate is concerned.

"Bad news?" James asks.

"Finn's a f-freaking moron," Harry answers, "Don't know why the f-hell - why the _hell_ \- he's on the team."

"You're going to meet people like that throughout your life," James answers, "I know it's frustrating, but try not to let it get to you."

Harry exhales, and glares out of his window. "Easier said than done."

"The best experiences always are."

Harry glances at his father, unimpressed. "Who are you, Yoda?"

His father grins, unabashed, and Harry laughs despite himself. Quinn texts him, a rambling text about her evening thus far, and slowly but surely, his peak of temper fades. There's not much he can do about Finn, but he can at least say he's tried, and come what may, the rest is out of his hands.

And Harry? Well, he can live with that.

 **Author's Note:** I had a hell of a time with this one, mostly because I realised partway through that I shouldn't have brought Finn's arc until after the winter break, but I kind of had to see it through because last chapter was already posted. As such, I'm not thrilled with this chapter, but on the bright side, you'll be seeing Sirius soon. Thanks for reading, and for all of your reviews. They're always appreciated. Until next time, -t.


	25. Part 1: Chapter 25: Winter

**Welcome to the Jungle**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter, or Glee. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Part One: Fifteen**

 **Chapter Twenty-Five: Winter**

It takes another week and a half, but Finn eventually quits the basketball team. Evidently, the arduous training sessions and the demanding expectations Coach Hooch has for them is more than he cares to endure, and thus he leaves before he suffers the indignity of being kicked off the team, instead. No one is particularly surprised by Finn's decision, but with test papers and projects due, and with the winter holidays just around the corner, Harry doesn't expend much time dwelling on it.

Instead, he contents himself with the knowledge that Coach Hooch will have another reserve by the start of the winter term, and instead focuses on his studies, and also on the excruciating quandary of what to get Quinn for Christmas.

"Is it too soon to get her jewellery?"

"Yes," Hermione answers. He feels like a bit of a bastard, asking her, but not only is the brunette his closest female friend, she's also not likely to report their conversation back to Quinn. He can't say the same for Santana and Brittany, who have some sort of 'chicks before dicks' thing going on with his girlfriend.

Usually, he can respect that, but it's a little inconvenient when he's trying to sort out what on Earth to get his significant other for Christmas.

"Don't go overboard. A hundred dollars, max, and even that's kind of pushing it. You want to get her something that says 'I like you a lot, and I'm happy with us', but, at the same time, you have to make sure it doesn't scream 'I want to spend the rest of my life with you.'"

"Right," Harry mutters, "I can do that."

Absently, Hermione hums her acknowledgement on the other end of the line. SHe's distracted. "Good luck."

"Thanks," Harry answers wryly, "I'll need it."

He ends his call, flips his phone shut, and wanders towards Starbucks. Evidently, his gift for Quinn bears further consideration, and Harry can only be grateful for the fact he's already purchased the rest of his Christmas presents.

It's the 14th of December, and he has a little under a week to sort out his present for Quinn. School lets out on the 19th, they've planned to meet up on the 20th to hang out and exchange gifts, and Harry's family leaves for Colorado the following day. They won't be back until late on the 2nd (weather permitting), and he won't see her again until the day after.

Predictably, the mall is crowded, packed to the rafters with Christmas shoppers. His mother and sister are somewhere among the throng, and they could probably help him out, but Harry has no desire to endure the inevitable teasing that would accompany a request for their aid.

He should have started this sooner…

Eventually, he finds himself in a boutique he can't remember the name of, brooding over a collection of fine, pretty scarves. He'd seen Quinn wear them casually during the fall term - when she wasn't in uniform, anyway - but he's uncertain of whether or not she would appreciate another one. Moreover, he's uncertain of whether or not buying her a scarf would be considered a cop-out, and God, why does Christmas shopping have to be so hard?

-!- -#-

It's Friday evening, the 19th, and Harry's at Puck's for a night of video games with the guys. Mike, Matt, and Finn are present as well, and while Ms Puckerman makes sure Abby's got everything packed for she and Puck's sojourn to Marseille, Puck kicks Mike's ass in Mortal Combat.

It's a fairly low-key way of celebrating the end of their first term of high school, but Harry's got work in the morning, and Puck's got a plane to catch..

Because Puck and Abby's paternal grandparents - his grandmother, in particular - aren't doing so well these days, Ms Puckerman and Mr Dubois (Pucks' Dad) have made arrangements for Puck and Abigail to spend their winter break in France. Puck's not too thrilled by it - evidently, his father's parents are far more orthodox than their son and grandchildren - but he hasn't complained about it, either. Probably, like Harry, he's suddenly a lot more conscious of their age and the whole concept of mortality, but Harry hasn't asked, and Puck hasn't brought it up.

That's not saying there aren't parties scheduled, or that they haven't been invited to them, but rather, it's more the fact neither Harry nor Puck can be bothered, and for whatever reason, Mike, Matt, and Finn have opted to join them for a few hours of hanging out, instead.

"When do you guys get back?" Matt asks. He's in Lima for the holiday, his relatives set to descend upon his home within the next few days. Mike and Finn aren't going anywhere, either, and the three of them already have New Years plans that involve a party hosted by someone on the hockey team.

"The 2nd," Puck answers.

"Same," Harry contributes. He helps himself to the bag of Doritos as Mike hands his controller over to Finn, "Long ass drive."

"I do not envy you, dude," Mike informs him, "Stuck in a car with my parents for almost a day? Damn."

"T'is the season, right?" Harry shrugs, more or less indifferent by this point. He doesn't relish the family bonding opportunity as his mother does, but it's become something of a tradition in the years since they've been going to Breckenridge. It'll be a bit different with his grandparents along for the ride, the Escalade a little more cramped than usual, but Harry and Kate are old enough to entertain themselves these days, and it's not the worst thing he'll ever do.

Mike shrugs his acknowledgement. "Whatever you say, dude."

"I've never been skiing before," Finn says ponderously, "What's it like?"

Harry imagines gangly, awkward, frequently clumsy Finn on a pair of skis, and tries not to cringe. It seems like a recipe for disaster, and it's perhaps for the best the idiot remains far away from any kind of winter sport. Not just for him, but for the poor sods who would have the misfortune of getting in his way, too.

"It's a rush," Harry answers, "I mean, you're hurdling down the side of a mountain, you know?I can't really explain it."

Finn nods his acknowledgement, though most of his focus seems to be on the TV screen, where Puck is soundly trouncing him, "Maybe I'll try it someday."

Harry hums, uninterested in further conversation, and helps himself to the available potato chips. "Maybe you will."

Matt starts talking about how much it sucks to have all three of his sisters back home, two of whom have brought their boyfriends along. It's apparently a little awkward, particularly because Mrs Rutherford has been rather vocal about her desire for grandchildren, and Mr Rutherford has made no secret of his disdain for both of the boyfriends in question.

That aside, it means it's a full house, about to be inundated by extended family, and Matt isn't pleased. He's not the most social of creatures, more content with a small group of friends rather than a large crowd of hanger-ons, and Harry gets it. He'd hate the thought of so many people invading his space, too.

He offers his friend a wry smile. "T'is the season, right?"

Matt smiles, half-hearted, and agrees, "T'is the fucking season."

-!- -#-

 **Author's Note:** This chapter is death. Swear to God, it was like pulling teeth. There was supposed to be another scene, of Harry and Quinn exchanging gifts, but I've decided to scrap it. Clearly, it doesn't want to be written. Thanks for reading. Until next time, -t.


	26. Part 1: Chapter 26: Vacation

**Welcome to the Jungle**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter, or Glee. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Part One: Fifteen**

 **Chapter Twenty-Six: Vacation**

The cabin his parents own, located in Breckenridge proper, is a three bedroom affair with an enormous kitchen and a cozy, rustic-style living room. It's a sight for sore eyes after 22 hours in the company of his parents, grandparents, and sister, and although the drive wasn't horrible as far as road trips go, it's not an experience he's particularly eager to repeat.

"Remember, we're having brunch with everyone else, so get some sleep in while you can. It'll be a long day, otherwise."

Mutely, Harry carries his grandparents' luggage into their room, and then drags his own things into the one he's required to share with Kate. It's fairly unremarkable, with a couple of single beds and a radiator in the corner, and Kate's already made herself comfortable on the bed nearest the window. SHe's awake, albeit barely, and she offers Harry a tired smile.

"It'll be good to see everyone."

"Yeah," Harry concurs.

Sirius Black and Remus Lupin have been a part of their lives for as long as Harry can remember. They'd join the SAS and MI5 alongside James, had been named godfather to Harry and Kate, respectively,

Harry retreats into the bathroom to get changed into warmer pyjamas, and by the time he returns, Kate's passed out. He texts Quinn once he's comfortable, just a brief 'Made it. Hope you're okay.'

Unsurprisingly, Quinn doesn't reply. It's barely three in the morning in Colorado, two hours ahead in Ohio, and Quinn's not likely to surface until it's strictly necessary.

Harry wishes he has that luxury.

-!- -#-

They meet at a cafe near the centre of Breckenridge, the Blacks, the Lupins, and the Potters. Sirius and Remus seemed to have aged years since the summer, but their spouses, Marlene and Dora haven't changed much at all.

Greetings are exchanged, hugs and kisses on cheeks, and afterwards, Harry drops into the seat across from Leo, who nurses a cup of tea as though it's the elixir of life. Next to him, his sister, Ursa, falls into an animated conversation with Kate, and for them, it's as if no time has passed at all.

"How was the flight?" Harry greets his old friend.

"Too bloody long," Leo answers, exasperated. "And the jet-lag is a nightmare."

Over their food, conversation turns to other things - school and sports and what have you - and it's nice to catch up. Leo's a few months younger than Harry himself, so they've known each other forever. It's odd, because although they don't talk more than a few times throughout the year, Leo actually knows him better than most people Harry's met.

He can say the same for Ursa, who has featured in his memory as long as her older brother, and between the four of them, Harry and Kate and Leo and Ursa, there are hours upon hours, days upon days of time well spent, of games and fights and everything in between.

It's easy with them, free from the unending scrutiny of his peers, the expectations and all the rest of it, and Harry smiles to himself, content. He might miss Quinn, but he's going to enjoy the next 10 days.

-!- -#-

The holiday passes in a haze of early morning snowball fights with Leo, Kate, and Ursa, accompanied by 10 year olds Cassiopeia Black and Teddy Lupin, followed by daily sojourns to the Breckenridge Ski Resort. They ski for hours, and return as evening falls. Dinner is always an uproarious affair, and afterwards, they entertain themselves with board and card games, always accompanied by hot chocolate and all the trimmings, and it is idyllic.

Christmas is as well, but it's the only day that breaks from the routine. They don't meet up with the others to play in the snow, and instead, the Potters cluster around their faithful, plastic Christmas tree, and exchange gifts over mugs of tea, cocoa, or coffee. There are scones and crumpets for breakfast, with butter and cream and jam, and Kate's made up a playlist of tolerable Christmas songs. She calls it 'mood music', and they both tear into their presents without hesitation.

It's been a little different for the last few years, both of them finally old enough to appreciate the value of giving and receiving gifts. They no longer declare what they want - if they 'want' anything at all, that is - and thus their presents are a little more thoughtful, a little less frivolous, and they're appreciated all the same.

Afterwards, it's a group effort to prepare for Christmas lunch with the Blacks and Lupins, and they arrive in a group shortly before midday. Sirius, hysterically, is in a Santa costume, and even as he is mocked mercilessly for it by the adults and teenagers, the man is entirely shameless.

"God, I love your mum's food," Leo groans. He's loaded up a third serving of the roast turkey, stuffing, and the gratin, and he doesn't look to be slowing down. Harry has been a little less selective, but he's matched his friend plate for plate, and the others have begun to notice.

"Me too," Harry answers.

"How can you possibly eat so much?" Ursa asks. She looks appalled, and the sight is comical with a paper crown on her head.

"I'm a growing boy," Leo answers.

"Let them be, darling" Sirius interjects, jolly with drink, "It's Christmas."

"Yeah, Sa, let us be." Leo pulls a face at his sister, who sticks her tongue out at him in turn.

Naturally, the main course is followed up with dessert, and between the pudding, the assorted cakes, slices, tarts, tortes, and pies, it's enough to lead one to a diabetic coma. It's decadent and an unreal display of excess, and they'll probably be enjoying the leftovers for the remainder of the trip.

Harry can't bring himself to be upset by this, of course, and helps himself to another serving of treacle tart. It's rare that he has access to it - only ever on special occasions, or whenever he's in the UK - and thus, he savours every bite.

Of course, he's not exactly hungry. The appetisers had ensured that he wasn't starving when he'd sat down for lunch, and he'd eaten three plates of the main course since then, but in his family, eating to excess is more or less a prerequisite for a spectacular Christmas.

So is a post-lunch nap, and he's not the only one to indulge.

-!- -#-

When he wakes, it's to find the adults have migrated outside, bundled up on the outdoor furniture, kept warm by the gas heaters, blankets, and alcohol. Nearby, Leo's produced his guitar, playing an idle, mindless tune while Teddy and Cassie watch, enraptured.

"Oh, look, it's alive," Leo greets him. He's still got sleep creases on his face.

"Good to see you too, wanker."

Harry helps himself to a handful of Cadbury chocolates, brought from England, as he approaches the table, and briefly spends some time in conversation with the grown-ups. They're all intoxicated to one degree or another, and it's an entertaining few minutes before, eventually, someone brings the conversation around to another subject, and Harry is left to his own devices.

He returns to Leo, who has returned his attention to his guitar, and they sit in an easy, companionable silence as Leo plays, and as Harry replies to the text messages awaiting him on his phone.

"You've gotten good," Harry compliments.

"Thanks," Leo acknowledges, "The lessons are paying off, I guess."

"He plays all the time," Cassie contributes, "He joined a band, too."

"Oh?" Harry's a little intrigued, "What kind of band?"

"Covers, mostly," Leo shrugs. The tips of his ears are bright red. "Not like we're performing or anything. It's just… something to do, you know?"

Harry nods his acknowledgement. "You'll have to send me a recording, or something. A band's pretty mad."

Leo's noncommittal. "Maybe."

Leo's not an athlete. He used to play football (re: soccer) when they were younger, but that's more because everyone expected it of him, rather than any genuine interest in the sport. As he's grown older, his focus has turned more towards academics and the arts - theatre, in particular - and Harry's never really seen his friend quite so settled. He's still got the brooding artist thing going on, and an introverted personality that is so completely contradictory to anything and everything in the theatre, but he makes it work.

Better yet, no one begrudges him for his interests, and Harry's glad for it.

"Do you still play?" Leo asks.

Harry shrugs. "When I have time."

Kate drops into the seat beside Leo, her hair mussed and her eyes bleary. "Harry's barely home, so basically never."

"I've cut down my hours though, so I should have more free time, maybe."

"Have you picked out a car yet?" Leo queries.

"Depends on what's available, doesn't it? I'm getting a used one, so…"

"Understandable," Leo concedes.

Time passes, and evening falls. The teenagers retreat inside, accompanied by Teddy and Cassie, and Kate produces Twister from the games cupboard. It's a laugh, and as Harry fails spectacularly, he can forget - for a while - that Quinn's got plans to meet up with Finn the following day.

Normally, it wouldn't bother him, but normally, they wouldn't be alone, either. It's ridiculous and irrational, but Finn's already made it obvious that he's attracted to Quinn, and the thought of Quinn's undivided attention on the dumbass? It's grating.

Unfortunately, they're usual group is unable to join them for assorted reasons, and Harry's not about to express his displeasure at the situation. He might dislike it, but he's not about to tell Quinn whom she can and cannot see. Instead, he'll suck it up and accept it, and he'll, also, trust that Quinn's smart enough not to fall for any of Finn's bullshit.

It's all he can do, really.


	27. Part 1: Chapter 27: New Year

**Welcome to the Jungle**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter, or Glee. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Part One: Fifteen**

 **Chapter Twenty-Seven: New Year**

Boxing Day brings with it a return to the routine they'd fallen into before Christmas, with the addition of Christmas leftovers in lieu of store-bought hot chips and the like, and it's a good time. Harry spends most of the day with Leo, but Kate and Ursa feature prominently, as well, and before he knows it, one of them - he's not quite sure whom, in truth - has dared the rest of them to try out the black trails on Peak 10.

Harry's father, James, accompanies them. As the most experienced skier amongst the adults, he's already traversed the trails in question, and although he's not particularly thrilled by their decision, he doesn't stop them, either. Instead, he stays close by in case something goes wrong, and blessedly, nothing does.

"That was wicked!"Ursa exclaims, buoyant, "Can I go again? Please, James?"

His father, who is an adrenaline junkie underneath all of that parental regard, concedes with only a few moments of hesitation.

Of the teens, only Harry and Leo have attempted the black and double black trails in the past, but at 13 (almost 14), their respective sisters are finally considered old and experienced enough to join them.

That doesn't stop James' concern, of course. He's a parent; it's apparently in his nature.

As Kate and Ursa share an excited high five, however, Harry can't bring himself to feel bad for making his dad - and the other adults - worry.

And so the days pass by in a blur after that, and before long, it's New Year's Eve, and they've gathered at the cabin to ring in 2009 with more food, and excellent company.

While the adults imbibe in the dining room, the children take over the living area, occupied by an array of games, by music, and by conversation. Teddy and Cassie are in their own world, enthralled by Marlene's portable DVD player and the accompanying movies, but the rest of them have clustered around the coffee table, and have spent the last few hours entrenched in a game of Monopoly.

Still, there is no end in sight.

"Does anyone have any resolutions?" Kate asks idly. She rattles the dice in her hands, and carelessly flicks the pair across the board.

"Snake eyes," Ursa observes, and jests, "Get a boyfriend, maybe."

Meanwhile, Kate grimaces her displeasure, moves forward two places, and coughs up enough quid to cover her rent. Leo, the landowner, accepts her cash with a satisfied smirk.

"Who?" Leo asks, unimpressed, "You go to an all girls school."

"I was joking, you idiot."

"Good."

Ursa scowls at her brother, who stares back, unfazed.

Seated beside them, Harry and Kate wait in awkward silence for their companions to get over their spat, but predictably, it doesn't take long.

"No resolutions here," Leo addresses Kate, "I suck at actually sticking to them."

"Commitment issues, thy name is Leo," Ursa glibly interjects.

As Harry and Kate smirk, humoured, Leo ignores her. "What about you?"

"Nope," Kate denies.

They each look at Harry, expectant, who shrugs, noncommittal. "Not really, no. Haven't much thought about it."

"Maybe we should," Kate says thoughtfully, "Have a goal to work towards, or something."

"Don't really need a New Year's resolution for that," Leo reasons, "But if that's what you want to do, you've got four and a half hours to come up with something."

"No pressure, then," Kate quips.

"None at all," Leo concurs. He's actually sincere, and Kate leans into his side, a fond grin on her face.

Their game progresses. Harry, who hasn't inherited or yet acquired his grandparents' business acumen, is well on his way to bankruptcy, but Ursa shamelessly destroys them. As she does so, conversation continues, easy and mindless, accompanied by the sound of Kanye West, T-Pain, Usher, and a bevy of their contemporaries from Kate's portable speakers. She's made up a playlist made up solely of Hip Hop and R&B artists, and although the genres aren't Harry's usual go to, he finds he's actually enjoying it.

"So, what's Quinn like?" Ursa prods.

"None of your beeswax," Harry answers. Ursa pouts. Leo laughs.

Kate rolls the dice again.

-!- -#-

"I've kind of got a New Year's resolution," Leo confesses quietly. The girls are curled up under a blanket, occupied by something on Kate's phone, and Teddy and Cassie have lost their battle against the lure of sleep. The two of them are sprawled out on the couches, dead to the world, and not even when bouts of raucous laughter erupts from the dining room do they stir.

"Oh?"

Leo hesitates. He looks terrified. "I'm gay."

Harry blinks, bemused. "And?"

In truth, Harry can't say he's particularly surprised. Leo's not the stereotypical gay, flamboyant, fashion obsessed and what have you, but Harry's known his friend for a long time. In all the years they've known each other, Leo's never expressed an interest in anyone of the opposite gender, and although Harry can't say he's ever spared much thought on the matter, he can't say the revelation has floored him, either.

"And?" Leo echoes, "Is that all you have to say?"

Harry shrugs. "What do you want me to say? It's not a big deal, Leo. Not to me. Not to anyone else here, either, I bet."

Leo exhales, long and slow, and he deflates like a balloon. Harry lightly elbows his friend's side, quietly supportive, but doesn't bombard him with questions. That can wait another day.

"You all right?" He asks instead.

"Yeah," Leo answers. His smile is small, but earnest. "Thanks."

"Anytime."

They sit in a companionable silence as the clock ticks closer to midnight, and some time later, they're joined once again by Kate and Ursa. 'The Good Life' by Kanye and T-Pain filters from Kate's speakers, Ursa raps along (which is hilarious), and the company is better than he could have asked for.

-!- -#-

As Teddy and Cassie sleep on, the teens join the parents and grandparents a few minutes to midnight, and they're each handed a champagne flute. They're all half empty, courtesy of Charles and Dorea, and it's hilarious to watch as the adults grow progressively louder as midnight approaches.

"Well, it's been a tough year," James says, and raises his glass, "Pray the next will be better."

They clink glasses, the adults drain their's, and they are refilled in short order.

"All right, it's thirty seconds to," Charles declares, "Get ready."

They do so with delayed, drunken efficiency, and the teens watch on, highly entertained. Kate films, gleeful.

The countdown proceeds as it always does, and at zero, champagne is had, hugs are shared, and best wishes for the new year exchanged.

And then, as usual, someone starts to sing. This year, it's Sirius, but before long, everyone else joins in, too.

" _Should old acquaintance be forgot_

 _And never brought to mind_

 _Should old acquaintance be forgot_

 _And auld lang syne…_ "

-!- -#-

 **Author's Note:** I did not expect Part 1 to be this long, and it's only New Years. Hope you guys like. Thanks for reading. Until next time, -t.


	28. Part 1: Chapter 28: Back Home

**Welcome to the Jungle**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter, or Glee. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Part One: Fifteen**

 **Chapter Twenty-Eight:** Back Home

It's a late start on New Year's Day, and what dregs of the morning that remain are spent preparing for their departure from Breckenridge. Bedding is stripped, washed, and folded again, and what little food they can't take with them is reluctantly disposed of. Kate blasts her music while she sweets, vacuums, and mops the floors and carpets, respectively, Harry cleans the kitchen, living room, dining area, and all the windows, and the adults nurse hangovers while they power through all of the other necessary chores that have built up over the last ten days.

Eventually, all they can do is done, and they pile into the Escalade to head into town for one last lunch. The Blacks and Lupins meet them at the same cafe they'd met up at on their first day in town, and while the adults talk soberly at a table separate from that of their collective offspring, the teens pretend not to notice.

Instead, Kate and Ursa try valiantly to ensure Teddy doesn't break something, or spill something, or otherwise experience one of his notorious spells of clumsy. Teddy doesn't notice, instead rapt up in he and Cassie's animated conversation, and Harry and Leo make idle, distracted chatter about the school term ahead, and anything else that comes to mind, as well.

"So, this was fun," Ursa says. She takes a pull of her cola through her straw, and then scrunches up her face when she gets a brain freeze for the trouble.

Leo laughs at his sister's plight, and Harry offers her a cheeky grin. "Same time next year?"

"You bet," Ursa plays along. "You'll bring the wheels, right?"

"I'll bring the license," Harry answers, "I doubt whatever car I get will last the drive over."

"Good enough," Ursa shrugs, "I'll bring the Cadbury."

"I'll bring Mum," Kate contributes glibly, and her reason is self-explanatory. They've each had Lily Potter's food, after all.

"And I'll bring myself," Leo concludes. He winks exaggeratedly, and as Harry and Kate laugh, Ursa splutters indignantly, and throws a scrunched up serviette at his head.

Unfortunately, it's not long before the adults split to pay the bill, and afterwards, they gather by the cars to exchange farewells. The Blacks and Lupins are headed to the city of Denver, to a flight that leaves for London, via New York, that night. Meanwhile, Harry and his family are headed back to Lima, and although they're overnighting in the first town they reach when night falls, none of them are particularly enthused by the prospect of yet another road trip.

"Best of luck with the resolution, man," Harry claps Leo on the shoulder, and then tugs his friend into a hug, "Though I doubt you have anything to worry about."

"Fingers crossed," Leo answers, "Good luck with the license thing."

Ursa's next, and she has no qualms about hugging him ferociously. Harry returns it with a laugh and a tug on her ponytail, and next time he sees her, he's sure she's going to be almost as tall as Leo.

"About the boyfriend thing…" Harry hesitates, and Ursa waits expectantly. Her expression is guarded, and it seems as though she expects him to warn her off the prospect. She is surprised, then, when he shrugs, sheepish, and tugs his beanie lower on his head. "I don't know, just… don't settle, all right?"

Ursa pulls his beanie over his eyes, squeezes his cheeks, and then hugs him again. "You're adorable, and I love you. Thanks, Harry, and maybe you should take your own advice, all right?"

He frowns, perplexed, but before he can ask, Ursa and Kate are training beanies (as they always do), and hugging and crying, and somehow communicating between all the blubbering.

Harry figures his question can wait a while.

His parting with Teddy and Cassie isn't so loaded, and neither are his exchanges with Marlene and Dora.

Remus and Sirius, on the other hand…

Remus hugs Harry close, and there's something utterly final about the way he holds him, as though he doesn't expect he'll ever get the chance again. He smells familiar, of pine and old books, and something indefinably _Wales_ , and Harry hugs him too, fierce and a little desperate, because whatever trouble is going on in the UK, Harry doesn't want his family involved.

"Take care of yourself, all right?"

"I will," Harry answers, "You will too, won't you?"

Remus smiles, though he looks inexplicably weary. "Of course. Who do you take me for - Sirius?"

"God forbid," Harry glibly replies.

Remus gives him one last squeeze, and then releases him to hug Lily, instead. He's replaced by Sirius, who clasps Harry's shoulders in each hand, and spares a moment simply to study his godson.

"Eat, drink, and be merry, kiddo," Sirius advises him, "And remember, always practice safe sex."

Unsurprised by his godfather's advice wrapped up in good humour, but mortified all the same, Harry's responding eye roll is accompanied by a red face. He flounders for something to say, but Sirius hugs him before he can come up with something, and Harry returns it with a choked laugh.

"You suck, Sirius."

His godfather smirks, pleased. "I do try."

"I'll see you next year, won't I?"

Sirius gives a rattling sigh. "I hope so, kid. I really do."

Upon unspoken agreement, they say no more on the issue. Instead, Sirius teases him briefly about Quinn, but they're already cutting it close, and the Blacks and Lupins have to split before they miss their check-in at Denver. As such, it's soon only the Potters that remain, and even then, none of them care to linger.

-!- -#-

They return to Lima late on the 2nd, which falls on a Friday. He hasn't been rostered on to work over the weekend, so he sleeps in on Saturday, and enjoys a late breakfast of eggs and bacon he begrudgingly makes himself. His mum wants him to accompany she and Kate to the mall in order to stock up on school supplies, so he makes plans with Quinn for that evening, and Harry can't say he's surprised to encounter many of his classmates at the only shopping centre in town.

Mostly, Harry just needs new pens, pencils, and more post-it notes, but he purchases himself a couple of new journals (for sketching), and his mother buys him a set of multi-coloured charcoals he'd been eyeing wistfully.

In contrast, Kate goes to town in the stationery aisle, and it's not until their mother gets truly irritated that the 13 year old subsides.

"Can we go home now?" Harry entreats.

Lily scrutinises them both, head to toe, and answers, "Kate and I need to stop in at Macy's for a little while. Can you entertain yourself for an hour?"

"I'll be in the foodcourt," Harry answers.

Kate scoffs. "Typical."

Harry pulls a face at his sister, Kate returns it, and their mother separates them before their interaction can devolve into something a little more unpleasant.

"All right, Harry, I'll call you when we're done."

Harry makes for the foodcourt, buys himself some KFC, and seeks out a table that'll fit four. He receives some unimpressed glares for the trouble, but he'll be joined by his mum and sister soon enough, and he's not about to go through the trouble of moving later to satisfy other people, none of whom he actually knows, nor cares about.

That said, it's something of a relief to be joined by Santana and Brittany. THey've each purchased lunches for themselves, and over their respective meals, Harry catches up with them both. Mostly, it's Santana and Brittany updating him on the events of winter break, and particularly, all of the drunken hijinks that took place on New Year's Eve.

As far as Harry's friends are concerned, it's all fairly tame. They're all still rather put off by the events from earlier that school year, and consequently, none of them are particularly eager to lose control to the alcohol. It's no less entertaining, however.

"When are you seeing Quinn?" Santana asks.

"Later," Harry answers, "We have dinner plans. Why?"

The Latina shrugs. "No reason."

Harry nods slowly, nonplused, but he doesn't get much of a chance to press her. Instead, he gets a call from Kate, with word that she and their mum are on the way to the food court, with plans to stay for lunch, and would he please make sure that they'd have somewhere to sit?

When Harry hangs up, Santana and Brittany prepare to leave, and with a hug from the latter, and with the guarantee that he'll be seeing them both on Monday, they do so in short order. Kate and Lily take their place shortly thereafter, and Harry settles in for a little while longer.


	29. Part 1: Chapter 29: White Lies

**Welcome to the Jungle**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter, or Glee. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Part One: Fifteen**

 **Chapter Twenty-Nine: White Lies**

Quinn's acting weird. It's not overt, nothing Harry can call her out on, but she's tense, somehow distant, but also clingy, and the mixed signals throw him off. He doesn't know how to deal with this situation, if he should prod her for answers, or if he ought to just let her sort through her issues alone.

It makes for a rather awkward dinner, unsurprisingly, though again, it's nothing obvious. Their conversation is easy, about their respective holidays, what they each received for Christmas. Quinn talks about volunteering at the Lima Memorial Hospital, Harry speaks of his thoughts on the Euro Challenge, the French Club, and the revelation that Kate will be joining the Steam House team on the 16th of January. All the while, there is a tension that lingers between them, one that remains through their meal, and through the dessert that follows.

Eventually, his nerves get the better of him, and he asks Quinn about it as they leave Breadsticks.

"Is there something wrong, Q?"

"What? No, of course not. Why would you think that?"

Quinn avoids his gaze, however, and Harry is at an impasse. Call her out on her lie, or pretend that he actually believes what she's just said?

"Okay," Harry sighs, "Let me rephrase that. What's the matter, Quinn? You've been acting weird all night, and Santana seemed worried about you earlier today."

"You saw Santana?"

"We ran into each other at the mall," Harry answers, "Don't change the subject. What's eating you?"

"I'm fine," Quinn insists, "There's nothing wrong. I promise."

Harry frowns. Again, he doesn't believe her in the slightest, but to press Quinn further would likely result in an argument, and he has no desire to have a fight in public. Moreover, his dad's on his way to collect them, and the man has no business witnessing that.

"Okay, I'm just going to pretend I believe that because I don't want to have a fight over it," Harry bluntly informs her, "For future reference, just say you don't want to talk about it. I don't appreciate you lying to me."

Quinn flinches. "I'm sorry."

Harry shrugs. "It's fine."

Except it's not. Not really, and they both know it.

-!- -#-

After seeing Quinn to her front door, Harry returns to the car, and settles into the front passenger seat. His dad's got the heater on, and Fleetwood Mac filters from his speakers.

"Trouble in paradise?" James asks, and he's oddly tentative. It's not something Harry's accustomed to seeing from him, though the enquiry itself isn't much of a surprise. James Potter's a perceptive fellow, and it's not as though the tension between he and Quinn wasn't obvious, besides. He was irritated, she was upset, and they hadn't shared a word between them for the entire car ride to Quinn's place.

Instead, Quinn and his dad had chatted idly between them, and Harry had valiantly avoided repeated attempts at eye contact with him through the rearview mirror at every stop sign his father encountered.

In all, it was perhaps the longest 12 minutes of Harry's life. He should know - he'd counted.,

Harry shrugs. "Guess so. Don't really want to talk about it."

"All right," his dad acquiesces, "If you change your mind…"

"I know," Harry answers. That said, even if he _did_ know what was going on with Quinn, he likely wouldn't confide in his parents about it. It's far too personal, or something.

The rest of the drive is spent in silence, but at home, Kate's got Britney Spears blasting from her speakers, and everyone else has made themselves scarce. Beside Harry, James rolls his eyes and strides upstairs to (hopefully) confiscate Kate's speakers, and Harry retreats to his bedroom before he becomes an unwilling witness to the ensuing clash.

Evidently, it's a night of unpleasantness all 'round.

-!- -#-

The last day of his winter vacation, Sunday, passes uneventfully. He does his laundry, and spends most of the day finding new ways to procrastinate. The rest of it is spend doing what little holiday homework he hasn't yet completed, and by the time evening falls, Harry's feeling a little stir crazy. It's too cold to do anything too strenuous, but he takes the dogs for a short walk, bundled up in their jumpers and booties, and washes them down in his bathroom when he gets home.

It's something Harry and Kate were always told to do as kids, to wash away the anti-freeze chemicals that have accumulated in Frodo and Sam's fur before they have the opportunity to lick it off themselves, and although tedious and messy, both siblings have learned to be diligent and thorough about it.

Predictably, both dogs are in high spirits, wagging their tails and licking him for all they're worth. They love walks, and they enjoy baths more, but they settle down quickly enough, warm and comfortable in their beds. Despite Harry's poor mood, the sight of them is enough to bring a smile to his face.

He settles in the entertainment area, downloads some new guitar tabs, and begins teaching himself a new song. He'd draw, but in the mood he's in, he's more likely to break his pencil than produce something halfway decent, and he has no desire to make his mood worse. Instead, he broods over Quinn - and there disagreement - some more, plays his guitar, and awaits his mother's summons for dinner.

He frequently checks his phone, too, because he misses his girlfriend despite himself, and they haven't gone a day without talking to each other since even before they'd gotten together.

He wonders if his attachment is healthy. He wonders, also, if it matters. Mostly, he just wonders if Quinn misses him as much as he misses her, and he can't fathom how he can be simultaneously angry and upset with someone, pining for them all the while. It's utterly baffling.

 **Author's Note:** I should have added this chapter onto the end of the last. The second half is very much a filler, but I hope you're all looking forward to Harry's second term at WMHS.

I had to look up whether or not it's safe to walk pets in snow, because we pretty much never get snow where I live, and when we do, it's not enough to start worrying about whether or not my dog will get frostbite.

Anyway, thanks for reading. Leave a review? I'm hoping to hit the 100 reviews mark this chapter, you see. Want to help a gal out? If not, until next time, -t.


	30. Part 1: Chapter 30: Another Day

**Welcome to the Jungle**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter, or Glee. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Part One: Fifteen**

 **Chapter Thirty: Another Day**

Although he half expects her not to turn up, Quinn waits for him outside the library. She looks small in her winter clothes - small, sad, and _tired_ \- and upon reaching her, Harry has no idea what to say. He has a peace offering though, in the form of his mother's breakfast muffins, a thermos of hot chocolate (the good kind), and the certainty that he doesn't want to go another day without talking to the girl that isn't only his girlfriend, but also one of his closest friends. He's not going to apologise for calling her out on her lie, because he's pretty sure he hasn't done anything wrong, but there was probably a nicer way of doing it.

Harry hesitates briefly, and then holds an arm out in invitation. Quinn takes the unspoken offer gratefully - practically falls against him, in fact - and he holds her close.

"I'm sorry I lied to you."

Harry sighs. "I'm sorry I got angry with you."

Quinn somehow clings tighter, her arms a vice grip around his waist. "I deserved it."

"Debatable, but either way, it didn't warrant the silent treatment. Yesterday sucked."

Quinn laughs wetly, sniffles, and wipes at watering eyes. "Tell me about it. Can we not do that again, please?"

"Deal," Harry agrees. He rubs her back, uncomfortable with the tears, and unsure of what else to do besides. "Just… don't lie to me, please? Tell me to mind my own business, tell me you don't want to talk about it, don't say anything at all, if you want. Just… I just really don't like lying. Not about the important stuff."

"I'm sorry," Quinn sighs, weary, "I won't do it again. I promise."

They kiss, lingering and sweet, and Harry mentions the muffins and cocoa he'd brought from home. Quinn, who has made no secret of her appreciation for Lily Potter's baking, is enthusiastic, and they retreat to the cafeteria to enjoy them. It's not empty, but neither is it particularly crowded, and as such, it's rather easy to find a table for themselves.

There, as Quinn and Harry sit as closely as their respective chairs would allow, the pair are left to their own devices. It's a pleasant way to spend the morning, eating and talking, and catching up properly after the last two weeks apart. It's still a little awkward, the tension from their disagreement leaving them both uncertain and shy, but it's an enjoyable hour and a half nevertheless, and Harry is therefore a little disappointed when they have to start making their way to class.

"Back to the daily grind," he sighs, regretful, and thinks of Breckenridge. Is it too late to return to Colorado? "Are you ready for a riveting term of American Poetry?"

"Like I'm ready for a tooth ache," Quinn answers, mock enthusiastic.

"Aw, don't be like that." Mike appears out of nowhere, greets Harry with a fist bump, and falls into step beside them. He's accompanied by Hermione, quiet and eyes bloodshot, and Harry casts her a concerned frown. "At least it's not Shakespeare, right?"

"That's something," Harry concedes. Quinn nods her agreement, and they both brace - and resign - themselves to the monotony ahead.

-!- -#-

Viktor's dating someone new. They're not together, officially, but it explains Hermione's uncharacteristic behaviour from that morning. She's a foreign exchange student from France, a knockout by the name of Fleur Delacour, and as she explains over their trashy cafeteria lunch, she's completed all of her mandatory school credits - hence why she's there in her final year - and she'd grown weary of her peers at Beauxbatons. She'll return to France to graduate, but in order to improve her English, she intends to finish her last year of high school in the United States.

"Why Lima?" Seamus asks. Frankie, in his usual, functional mute way, is as curious, but he doesn't vocalise it.

Harry's seated with his friends on the soccer team, disinclined towards putting up with Finn while Quinn, Santana, and Brittany sit with their fellow cheerleaders. Mike's got a meeting for the scholastic decathlon team, Matt for WMHS' African American Society, and Puck hates to be forced to act as a buffer between them. As such, Harry opts to spend time with the friends he's made _outside_ of the football team, and meanwhile, Puck and Finn raise hell with Karofsky and company. It's a compromise Harry can gel with, but a part of him still feels like something of an intruder among the obvious fraternity between Ron, Seamus, Frankie and, to a lesser extent, Viktor. Dean's at the same meeting as Matt, incidentally, and his absence aside, Harry can't shake the feeling he's not the only 'bro' missing in action.

Where the hell is Cedric?

Admittedly, Cedric is one of those social butterfly types who somehow manages to be friends with everyone, and so he can often be seen with a different group of people every day of the week, but at present, the dude isn't even in the cafeteria. Cho is though, as is Cedric's best friend, Ethan, and they both look concerned. As such, Harry worries, and he's pretty sure that the others are, too. They keep looking around in search of something (or someone), anyway.

"Mr and Mrs Krum are my host family," Fleur shrugs, "They are here, so I am here, too."

"Well, welcome to Lima, then," Harry offers, "I hope it treats you well."

"Thank you," Fleur acknowledges.

Ron carelessly deposits his tray on the table, and drops heavily into the empty seat beside Puck. He looks utterly done with the day, his clothes askew, his hair a mess, with a tired, greyish cast to his features. He actually looks a little ill.

"Wake up on the wrong side of bed this morning?" Seamus snarks. Ron smiles despite himself.

"Rough break," Ron explains, "Can't believe I'm actually relieved to be back in this shithole."

"Everything okay?" Harry enquires.

Ron shrugs. "Charlie told the family he's got a boyfriend. Mum didn't take it well."

"Jesus," Harry mutters. Around him, the others offer their sympathy. None of them are homophobes, mercifully, but at this point, only Fleur's the only one of them who remains a stranger to Molly Weasley's wrath.

"Sorry to hear that. If you need a place to crash…"

Harry doesn't expect Mrs Weasley to take it out on Ron, or any of his other siblings, but Ron's never made a secret of the fact he hates being in his house when his family is fighting. Fred and George don't get along with Mrs Weasley, and according to Kate and Ron both, Ginny clashes with both of their parents a lot, so it's apparently a frequent occurrence. It's never made Ron look this terrible, though.

"Thanks," Ron offers him a grateful smile, "I appreciate it."

Harry shrugs. "No problem."

Although Ron's visibly (and justifiably) unhappy, he makes an effort to socialise with the rest of them, and the remainder of their lunch hour isn't awful. They chat about soccer, mostly, interspersed with discussion about movies watched and video games played, but for Viktor's sake, they also make an effort to get to know Fleur. She gets to know them in turn, and Harry wonders if he ought to feel bad about the fact that he actually likes her.

Hermione, when she finds out, will probably not be impressed.

Eventually, the bell rings, and they disperse to their respective classes. Brittany meets him near their lockers, and they walk together to their art class. They're studying abstract art this term, for which his friend is exceedingly enthusiastic, but Harry can't share in her excitement. Instead, he's nervous about receiving his results for last term's final project, and more specifically, what his teacher thought of his painting.

With that in mind, Harry's quiet as he settles at his usual table, and distracted as Brittany babbles about her cat, Lord Tubbington. He's smiling though, because Brittany's utterly endearing, but as he does, he meets the bright, electric blue eyes of Daphne Greengrass.

Harry's still never heard her say a word, and despite himself, he is still curious.

This time, she's the one who looks away first.

 **Author's Note:** You guys are super. Thanks for the support. Made it to a hundred reviews, so yay! Hope you've enjoyed. Until next time, -t.


	31. Part 1: Chapter 31: Misery

**Welcome to the Jungle**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter, or Glee. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Part One: Fifteen**

 **Chapter Thirty-One: Misery**

At the beginning of training that afternoon, Coach Hooch introduces them to their new teammate, fellow freshman Kevin Entwistle, who is tall, thin, and quiet, but who turns out to be an accurate, consistent shot, quick and agile, and exceedingly more coordinated than Finn. It's obvious he's done a lot of growing in a short amount of time, but Entwistle is conscious of his motions in a way that Finn is not, and he's a far better player for it. He's a reserve alongside Gabriel, but Hooch has guaranteed that they'll both see time on court throughout the season, and both of them are satisfied with that.

At the end of that day's training session, Harry's not sure why he wasn't put on the team in place of Finn in the first place. Established team dynamic or not, it's abundantly clear Entwistle is a far better - and far more motivated - player than Finn ever would be.

During the impromptu team meeting, Coach Hooch also names Harry as captain of the JV team. He is as baffled by the appointment as he is surprised by it, but he doesn't protest. Instead, Harry accepts the copy of 'The Leadership Handbook' by John Maxwell Coach Hooch offers him, and solemnly promises to make sure she won't come to regret her decision.

The pressure's a bit much. At 15, Harry's never had to be a leader before, never had the responsibility of wrangling other - very contradictory - people. In fact, the only experience he has with wrangling _anyone_ is during those scant occasions wherein he and Leo, and later Kate and Ursa, were left in charge of Cassie and Teddy while the adults dined out, or imbibed to excess, during the vacations they've shared over the years. It's not much of a foundation to build upon, but on the upside, at least no one is disgruntled by Coach Hooch's selection.

"Congratulations," Cedric offers. "Can't say I'm surprised."

"You guys voted too?"

Near the end of the last school term, Coach Hooch had asked them to vote (anonymously) for their preferred captain, and from those results, she chose whom she thought would be best for the position. Harry had voted for Puck, who knew basketball better than anyone else on the team, but no one else had mentioned whom they'd voted for, and thus, neither had he.

Perhaps he should have.

"Yeah," Cedric confirms. He looks tired, drawn and weary like Harry has never seen him, and there's a melancholy about him that no one else seems to notice. "Coach thought we were, you know, objective."

"Were you?"

Cedric swallows down a mouthful of water, shrugs, and caps his water bottle. "Objective enough."

Harry huffs a laugh. "Not at all, then?"

Cedric grins, but it's a small, feeble thing. "You know it."

Coach Hooch calls them back from their water break, and the pair of them return to the court for another round of training drills. As they do, Cedric splits to join his team, and Harry watches his retreating back with a concerned frown. His friend is not okay, and whatever is wrong, it's got Cho and Ethan worried.

He wonders if it's his place to ask. He and Cedric haven't known each other long, and they've been friends for even less time. He is concerned for his older peer, but perhaps he ought to leave it to Ethan and Cho to help. They've known Cedric far longer, and are far closer to him, after all.

Sighing, he joins his teammates at their designated end of the court, and accepts that, if nothing else, the issue will keep until after training.

Maybe he'll talk to Cedric then.

Then again, maybe he won't.

-!- -#-

As it happens, Harry doesn't get the chance to. Coach Hooch holds him back to help with the clean up, and takes the opportunity to lecture him about the responsibilities and expectations that come with the title of 'Captain'. By the time Harry's dismissed to freshen up in the locker room, Cedric's already gone.

"What's up with Diggory?" Puck asks him.

Harry shrugs. "No idea."

"Dude shot out of here like his ass was on fire."

"Maybe he had somewhere to be?"

Puck's expression is blatantly doubtful, and Harry shrugs, clueless. He goes through the motions of a brief, refreshing shower, and gets dressed quickly in the bottom half of his Gi, a plain T-shirt, and his Titans pullover. He's got Karate training that evening - the first class of the year, and his ride already waits for him (and Mike) outside.

"It's going to be cold out there," Mike reminds him.

"I'll be fine," Harry answers, "Taid's already waiting, so we'll be out there for, like, a minute."

Mike shrugs in turn. "Suit yourself, dude."

Quinn's nowhere in sight when he gets outside, but there's a text on his phone that indicates she's already been picked up. It's a bit puzzling, because normally she sticks around at least to say 'goodbye' for the day, but as Mike had said, it's freezing out. As such, Harry assumes she hadn't wanted to linger in the snow, and he tries not to dwell on it.

Inside the car, Kate waits for them with she and Harry's grandfather, Charles, and the four of them chat idly about music on their way to the community centre. Mostly, it's Charles lamenting the trash that passes for pop music these days, and Kate defending it, and all in all, it makes for an entertaining drive.

On the way, they stop at one of the few diners in town to pick up dinner - a burger, fries, and soda - and wait until their at the centre to dig in. Harry's famished, the other two are, as well, and so it's quiet as they focus on their respective meals. They get changed afterwards - Harry into the top and belt that accompany his trousers - and join their peers in their improvised dojo. Mike's dad is already there, in conversation with some of the other parents present, and Mike wanders off to greet him properly.

Meanwhile, Harry and Kate are beset upon by the latter's friends, and they pass the time before their lesson catching up on each other's lives, talking Christmas presents and what not. It's okay, because Harry's developed something of a rapport with them, but they're still a little too guy crazy for comfort, so it's still a relief when Sensei Nick calls them to order.

"Ready to get your ass kicked?"

"Maybe I'll get lucky this time," Harry answers, good-natured. He hasn't won a spar against his friend yet, but he's not made it easy for Mike, either.

"When you win, it won't be because of luck," Mike answers.

"No pressure, or anything."

"No pressure," Mike echoes, rolls back his shoulders, and slips into a ready stance. As he does, he asks with a sarcastic smile, "Now, shall we dance?"

Mirroring his friend, Harry grins. "We shall."

 **Author's Note:** The second half of this chapter is mostly filler, but partly not. I was kind of stuck on it, but eh, it happens. I was hoping to get it posted on Saturday, but I've had a hella busy weekend. In fact, it's Monday morning, and it's still going!

Anyway, hope you've enjoyed, Until next time, -t.


	32. Part 1: Chapter 32: Heartache Tonight

**Welcome to the Jungle**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Glee, or Harry Potter. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Part One: Fifteen**

 **Chapter Thirty-Two: Heartache Tonight**

There's a 'Back to School' party on at Seamus' place on Friday. It's invite only, and the guest list consists mostly of Seamus' friends on the WMHS soccer teams. Harry's been invited, as have a few other classmates unaffiliated with the soccer team, and he's been told to bring a plus one if he feels so inclined.

When he asks, Quinn is mostly ambivalent. She's already committed to attending the Head Cheerleader's party with Santana and Brittany, and she doesn't seem particularly inclined to change her plans. it results in another fight, because although Quinn seems to expect it, Harry doesn't intend to change his, either.

It's a disagreement that hasn't been resolved by Friday. It festers instead, leaves them both tense, uncomfortable, and agitated, and if Harry's honest with himself, by school's end, he's kind of relieved to get away from her, and from the stifling tension between them, too.

At the same time, Harry's baffled. He's been back home for a week, and they've already had two arguments. Before Christmas, they hadn't fought at all, and the change is as bewildering as it is unwelcome.

"Rough day?" Ron asks.

"Rough week," Harry answers. He drops onto the cracked leather back seat of Fred and George Weasley's Ford Anglia, and greets the twins with a fist bump each. They aren't close, but they're friendly, and it's not difficult to like them besides. "How are you guys?"

"Better than you, I imagine," George replies. He tinkers with the car's ancient radio as he does so, and Third Eye Blind filters from the speakers. "Why so glum, chum?"

Harry sighs, resigned. He has no real desire to talk about it, but Fred and George are his ride to Seamus', and it seems kind of rude to brush off the enquiry. "Quinn and I have been fighting. It's just… draining."

"It always is," Fred answers. He would no, presumably; he's been in a relationship with Angelina Johnson since they were both 13 years old. "The make-up is always great, though."

Ron and George simultaneously roll their eyes and groan, and Fred laughs, unabashed.

"No one wants to know," Ron informs his brother, "Keep that shit to yourself."

"Aw, but sharing is caring, ickle Ronnykins," Fred parries.

Ron gives Fred the finger through the rearview mirror, and mercifully, conversation turns to their respective plans for the rest of the weekend. They've all got work at one point or another, but Harry's got Kate's 14th birthday party on Saturday evening to look forward to (re: dread), and as it happens, the others have plans, too.

"Ronny's got a date," George says, and he wears an impish grin, "With that cheerleader girl he's been messing around with. What's her name?"

Ron scowls. "How did you even know about that?"

"An actual date?" Harry clarifies.

"I know everything, Ronny, didn't you know that?" George asks at the same time.

Ron, who is actually bright red, shrugs and stares out the window. George is ignored. "Yeah. Figured, why not, you know? It's not like either of us are seeing anyone else."

Harry slumps further in his seat, crosses his arms over his chest, and leans against the car door. Noncommittally, he acknowledges, "I guess that makes sense."

Fred pulls up in front of Breadsticks, and they shuffle inside for an early - and affordable - dinner. The twins' usual company is already gathered, and the four of them pull up seats at their table.

"Took you guys long enough," Lee Jordan greets them, "What, did you take the scenic route?"

"Yeah," Fred deadpans, "That's exactly what I did."

A waitress arrives to take their orders, and once she's left again, conversation naturally turns to soccer. Lee doesn't play, but he's an avid fan, and as players, the rest of them are fairly invested, themselves. There's a heated debate about who will win the 2008 FIFA World Player of the Year, set to be announced the following Monday, which somehow segues to that day's revelation from Coach Hooch, received via email.

"What do you guys think about soccer in the spring term?" Angelina asks. Fred and George both shrug, generally ambivalent and adaptable.

"It'll be weird," Katie Bell answers. She's a sophomore - blonde, blue eyed, and beautiful - but she's particularly close with Angelina and Alicia, and through them, Fred, George, and Lee, as well. "But, you know, if that's what the OHSAA wants, what can we do about it?"

"Nothing, really, and it's not a big deal, I guess, but it'll definitely be an adjustment." Alicia twirls her pasta around on her fork, "I'm just not sure of what I'm going to do in the fall, you know? To stay in shape, I mean."

"There's always hockey, I guess," Angelina's expression is dubious though.

"I'm going for the cross country team," Katie contributes, smiles wryly, and adds, "We already train with them, so it shouldn't be too hard."

"Touché," Angelina concedes, "I might join you."

"Same," Alicia opines.

"What about you?" Ron asks Harry in the conversational lull that follows, "Since the soccer season's been moved, will you try out next year?"

"I think I will," Harry answers. The thought has been percolating in his mind since he'd learned of the shift from Ron that morning, but it's only now that he's come to a decision. "Viktor graduates this year, so I'll actually have a chance at making striker. That said, I don't see any reason why I wouldn't _want_ to."

He's not sure he'll continue with baseball alongside soccer, but the option is there. Baseball games are on Saturdays, soccer games on Fridays, so the only overlap would possibly be in training. Even then, that's not a certainty. He has a long time to decide, in any case.

"Are you any good?" Angelina asks curiously.

Harry shrugs. "Good enough."

"He's good," Ron contributes, "Good as Krum, at least."

"High praise," Lee observes, an eyebrow arched in surprise.

"Warranted," Ron answers, and his certainty is humbling.

"In that case, I look forward to seeing you in action," Katie winks suggestively, and Harry smirks despite himself. Bell's not subtle in the slightest, and he definitely shouldn't encourage her, but…

"In that case, I pray I don't disappoint," he answers. He maintains eye contact as he does so, and the moment that follows seems to last an age.

It's broken by Alicia, who laughs a little nervously and then stares determinedly into her soda. Fred and George briefly glance between Katie and Harry, curious and concerned, but they revive the conversation by regaling the rest of them with the story of a prank they'd pulled on their (apparently incompetent) Spanish teacher, and the moment is quickly forgotten in the light of good conversation and good company.

-!- -#-

The gathering at Seamus' is fairly tame, as far as high school parties go. It's chilled out, with weed, drinks, and good music, and no one's outwardly smashed. Yet.

As it happens though, the people invited seem content just to hang out, to toke up and have a few drinks, to enjoy some good music and shoot the breeze.

It's different, in all, but Harry finds he actually prefers it this way.

"Seamus, hey," Harry greets his friend with a clasp of hands that turns into a brief hug, "Thanks for the invite, mate."

Fred, George, and Ron greet him as well, familiar and fond in that way of teammates. They wander off quickly though, in search of drinks, or weed, and in order to greet the others who've already arrived, too.

"Thanks again for coming, man," Seamus says. He holds his guitar in his lap, but he doesn't play. Not yet.

"I'm glad I did," Harry answers, and Ron returns with a couple of Coronas, "How were you able to swing it?"

"My parents are in Belfast," Seamus answers, "Mum's sister just gave birth, so…"

"So she had to fulfil her filial duty," Harry concludes.

"Exactly," Seamus confirms. "My older sister, Maggie, is supposed to be here, but she decided to spend the weekend at her boyfriend's instead."

"Convenient," Ron glibly opines.

Seamus shrugs. "I'm not about to complain."

"No," Ron huffs a laugh, "I wouldn't, either."

Frankie and Dean wander over, and it's fun just to hang out. Seamus plays his guitar, sings occasionally, and even banters with the guests who wander in to watch and listen to him play. He's a good performer, talented when he's singing, and entertaining when he's not. Harry might be biased, but he's sure he's seen worse shows.

"Do you want to make a career out of it?" Harry gestures vaguely at Seamus' guitar.

"Ideally," Seamus answers, "But I doubt I will. I'm no Damien Rice."

"You could always try," Dean contributes, "You're good, and you never know, you might just be discovered one day."

"Dad wants me to go to school. Make something of myself, or whatever."

"Why don't you study music?" Harry suggests.

"Mate, I haven't even thought about it," Seamus answers, "I'm only a freshman, you know? I don't even know what I'm having for breakfast tomorrow."

"Understandable," Frankie acknowledges, , "You've got time to think about it. Don't stress about it now."

Seamus plucks idly at his guitar strings, nods, and answers, "I won't."

As Ron wanders off to find the bathroom, and Dean and Frankie descend upon the snack table, Harry meanders towards the kitchen to acquire himself another beer. It's empty, for the most part, everyone else in the living room, or on the back patio toking up, but Cho Chang is there, and she appears distressed. Harry hovers in the doorway, uncertain. He's not at all equipped to handle overwrought women, but he'd feel like an ass if he just left her alone. "Is everything all right, Cho?"

"No," Cho answers, and Harry's surprised by her honesty. He's even more surprised when, a moment later, she bursts into loud, hysterical tears.


	33. Part 1: Chapter 33: Drunk

**Welcome to the Jungle**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter, or Glee. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Warning:** Possible trigger in this chapter, and in the chapters ahead. Oblique references to abortion, and frank discussion later on.

… Is it too late to say spoiler alert?

 **Part One: Fifteen**

 **Chapter Thirty-Three: Drunk**

Bewildered, horrified, and a little bemused (because what the actual fuck?), Harry sets aside his empty beer bottle, approaches the older girl, and gently tugs her into an awkward, one-armed hug. It's uncomfortable for a variety of reasons, but even as Harry tries to comfort her, and to figure out what the hell is wrong, a part of him - incredulous, baffled, and utterly clueless - is preoccupied by the question of why he always winds up as the poor sod left to comfort emotional women.

Cho tries to speak through her waterworks, but she's utterly incomprehensible with the mix of alcohol and tears. It's that drunk kind of cry that guarantees there's no end of her bawling in sight, and Harry resigns himself to helping.

He's never been able to walk away from a damsel in distress.

He guides her to a seat at the dining table, and Frankie - who has appeared in the interim - offers him an unopened bottle of water and a packet of serviettes. As he does so, he quietly assures Harry that he'll keep everyone out of the kitchen for a bit, and then makes himself scarce.

Harry, meanwhile, drops into the seat beside Cho, slings an arm over her shoulders, and waits for the emotional whirlwind to pass. He regrets, briefly, not asking Frankie to seek out Cedric, but as Cho continues to try and explain what's wrong, it doesn't take Harry long to figure out that it's probably for the best that he hadn't.

Whatever it is that has Cho in hysterical, drunken tears, it has everything to do with Cedric Diggory.

"Did you want me to go punch him for you?" Harry asks, and he's only mostly joking.

Cho, who is calmer now, laughs wetly, and wipes at her eyes with a crumpled serviette. She's still upset, and there's a grief in her eyes that Harry can't fathom, but at least she's no longer hysterical."Thanks for the offer, Harry, but that's not necessary."

"You sure?"

"Yeah," Cho answers, "Things are just a mess right now. It's not Ced's fault. It's just… Things really suck at the moment, and I guess neither of us really know how to make it better."

That, he is sure, makes things about as clear as mud, but Harry isn't about to ask for clarification. He can probably count on one hand the number of conversations he's had with the girl, and they've all been the perfunctory, awkward small talk sort during those occasions wherein he's actually in her company to speak with Cedric. As such, they're friendly, but they're not exactly friends, and therefore, it would be overstepping bounds Harry has no desire to cross.

Cho's nice and all, clever and snarky and athletic, somehow detached from the usual social politicking that is rampant in WMHS, but there's something unattainable about her that puts him off.

It's not because she's Cedric's girl, because Harry has no real qualms about befriending his friends' romantic partners, but it's Cho, herself. She has a bearing about her that leaves him rather reminiscent of his grandmother, Dorea, and he usually avoids those women who've been raised surrounded by wealth. Not because he doesn't know how to deal with them - because, in actuality, he's been pretty much groomed for it - but because he doesn't _want_ to. It's social politicking of an entirely different sort, and Harry's sure he's going to spend the entirety of his adult life putting up with it. As such, he would sooner not start until he has no other choice.

"I'm sorry." As he speaks, he wonders how everything can possibly have gone to shit in only two weeks. He goes away for Christmas, and upon his return, it's as though everything's been turned on it's ear. The term 'trouble in paradise' has never seemed so appropriate.

Cho shrugs, and her smile is bleak. "It's not your fault. It just… is."

Unable to find an appropriate response to that, Harry nods his acknowledgement, and the pair of them sit in a surprisingly companionable, thoughtful silence. Harry drinks his beer, and Cho sips mechanically at her water.

"Where is Diggory, anyway?"

Cho sighs, weary and sad, and slumps further down in her seat. She's lethargic - boneless, almost - and he wonders how much she's had to drink. It's still fairly early. "He's outside. Utterly plastered, last I saw him. Ethan said he'd make sure he wouldn't hurt himself."

Seamus set up the outdoor heaters on his parents' patio, and there's a whole lot of people outside, smoking and what have you. Ethan Summerby is also one of the designated drivers for anyone who needs a lift home. As such, Harry tries not to worry.

He mostly fails.

"He hasn't been okay this last week. Not acting himself, or whatever."

"I know," Cho answers. She picks at the label on her water bottle, and then she laughs, mirthless. "We're a mess, him and I."

"It'll get better."

Cho smiles, and Harry gets the impression she doesn't believe him. "I hope so."

He squeezes her shoulder, again lost for words, and Seamus sings a mellowed down, acoustic rendition of 'Slide' by the Goo Goo Dolls in the next room over.

" _Don't you love the life you killed? The priest is on the phone_

 _Your father hit the wall, your Ma disowned you_

 _Don't suppose I'll ever know what it means to be a man_

 _It's something I can't change, I'll live around it…_ "

Next to Harry, Cho bursts into tears all over again, gut-wrenching and inconsolable.

Harry drains his beer, because he's sure he's not nearly drunk enough for this, and even as the puzzle pieces click into place, he doesn't want to understand. He wants to close his eyes and shut off his ears to this epiphany, because the explanation of Cedric's - and now Cho's - behaviour is worse than he'd imagined and he doesn't want to deal with this.

Hell, he doesn't know _how_ to deal with this.

"Shit," Harry mutters, low and drawn out, because what can he possibly say? He's fairly certain there are no words in any language known to man that will make this okay. "Did you…?"

Cho nods wordlessly, and she's hyperventilating and crying, and Harry has no idea what to do. He gently guides her head between her knees though, because that's what people do, right? And then he rubs circles into her back, and works at getting her breathing to match his own.

As Harry does so, he's fairly certain she can't tell he's trembling about as violently as she is. He hopes as much, anyway, and he hopes, also, that she can't tell he wants to cry, too.

 **Author's Note:** So… that happened.


	34. Part 1: Chapter 34: Everybody Hurts

**Welcome to the Jungle**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter, or Glee. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Part One: Fifteen**

 **Chapter Thirty-Four: Everybody Hurts**

Cho cries herself to sleep, and Harry - with Frankie's help - leaves her to sleep in Seamus' sister's room. Cho's best friend, Marietta - or Mari, to most people - is called to retrieve her, and with word that she's on her way, Harry and Frankie loiter in the hallway until she arrives.

Harry remembers, vividly, the events of Ethan's party earlier that school year, and he's not going to allow for a repeat. Moreover, he needs some time to regain his bearings, because Cho's revelations have left him floundering in a sea of surprise and uncertainty.

What, if anything, does he do with the knowledge that Cho had been pregnant, but had since terminated that pregnancy?

On top of that particular bombshell, there is, also, the knowledge that neither of them - Cho or Cedric - are coping well in the aftermath.

It's understandable, of course - Harry can't imagine what they're going through - but Cedric seems to be self-destructing, and Cho's own grief is blatantly obvious. More so is the knowledge that both of them need help - of the professional, non-alcoholic variety - and given the circumstances, it's not likely either of them are receiving that support.

"Is everything okay?" Frankie asks tentatively. He's a big guy, tall and stocky, and the cautiousness is an odd look on him.

"No," Harry answers honestly, "It's really not."

"You gonna talk about it, or…"

"Not my place."

Frankie nods, unsurprised. He doesn't pry further, and they wait in silence for Marietta to arrive. It's quieter up there, far from the conversations and the music from downstairs.

Harry slumps against the wall, mentally drained by the last hour - by his whole week, really - and ready just to go home. Frankie plays Tetris on his phone, and the minutes creep by with an agonising, mind-numbing slowness.

Eventually, Edgecomb arrives, dressed comfortably in yoga pants and a tank top. She's tall and thin, with dark red hair and a heart-shaped face. She's intimidating though, beautiful, intelligent, and ambitious, with a scathing tongue, and a complete willingness to use it against all of the morons who have the misfortune of crossing her path. ,

Upon sight of her, Harry points wordlessly to the closed door across from him, and she shuffles inside with a nod of gratitude. A few minutes later, she walks out with an insensate Cho against her side, and Harry walks them both to Marietta's car. Cho is guided into the passenger seat, and once the door is closed, Marietta rounds the car to the driver's side.

"Thanks; for taking care of her," Edgecomb addresses Harry. Barring their conversation over the phone earlier, it's perhaps the first time she's spoken to him at all.

Harry shrugs. "It's no problem, really."

"I'll take care of her."

Harry nods. He hadn't expected anything else. "Thanks for picking her up. I'd have asked Summerby to take her home, but…"

But Harry doubts her parents would be particularly enthused to find their intoxicated daughter on their doorstep, and he has no idea whether she'd be welcome there besides. There is no telling whether or not her parents know about the pregnancy and the subsequent abortion, after all, and Harry doesn't want to take any chances.

"It's fine," Marietta answers, "You did the right thing, actually. Her parents are super strict, so…"

Harry nods, reassured. "That's good. I mean, not about her parents, but, you know…"

A brief smile tugs at the corners of Marietta's mouth, and Harry gets the impression she thinks he's an idiot.

He clears his throat, awkward and flustered. "Well, I'd better get back to the party, check on Diggory…"

"Okay," she opens her car door, "Good night, Potter. And thanks, again."

"Night," he answers, but Marietta's already shut her door, and he doubts she hears. He waves, she returns it, and she pulls away from the curb.

Harry, meanwhile, returns inside. The warmth is a welcome relief, but Harry doesn't linger to appreciate it.

Instead, he makes his way outside, where the mingled scent of cigarettes and marijuana permeate the air. It's warm on the patio, courtesy of the outdoor heaters, and tucked away in a corner far from the light that spills out from the house, or even from the tiki torches that bracket the outdoor tiles, Cedric is sprawled out along the outdoor chaise, dead to the world.

In contrast, Ethan is slumped wearily in an adjacent armchair, fiddling with his phone, and stone cold sober. He's a short, stocky dude, with cropped brown hair and shrewd blue eyes, and he's somehow friends with everyone.

It's a little odd as far as WMHS is concerned, because he's a loud and proud member of the AV Club, the Chess Team, and Lima's very small LGBT community, but Harry doesn't care enough to question it.

"Summerby," Harry greets. He drops into the armchair beside Ethan's, and sighs wearily. "Marietta came to pick up Cho. She, ah, broke down in the kitchen."

Ethan throws his head against the back of his chair, groaning. "Damn it."

"She told me what happened," Harry continues. He glances at Cedric, who is still unconscious, and not likely to stir anytime soon, "How's he handling it?"

"How do you think?"

Harry grimaces. "That good, huh?"

There is an ironic, mirthless smile on Ethan's face. "You bet."

"How much did he have to drink?"

"Too much," Ethan grimly replies, "I was worried about alcohol poisoning for a bit, but I think I cut him off in time. He's just sleeping."

Harry takes note of the fact that Cedric's been moved into the recovery position, and is also covered up by a blanket. There's a heater nearby, too, which keeps them warm, and there are a few empty water bottles alongside the (nearly empty) bottle of Jack Daniels and a handful of crumpled beer cans.

"Are you sure?"

"Sure as I can be. That bottle was half empty when Ceddy got his hands on it." He gestures vaguely at the whisky, "I gave him a lot of water between drinks, too. He'll probably have a monster of a hangover tomorrow, but he should be fine, otherwise."

Harry nods his acknowledgement, satisfied, and they both fall silent. It's neither comfortable or uncomfortable, and it is quickly broken by Ethan.

"Why did she tell you? I don't even think she's told Edgecomb."

Harry shrugs, clueless. "Because I was there, I guess. Seamus was playing 'Slide' - you know the one? By the Goo Goo Dolls? - and she just started bawling. It wasn't hard to figure out, given the song. Anyway, I asked, and she just confirmed it. I think she was relieved to tell someone, I don't know. She certainly didn't hesitate to share when I asked, anyway."

"Was it hard to hear?" Ethan asks. His expression is sympathetic.

Harry nods emphatically. "I don't… I don't know what to do."

Ethan shrugs, glances at Cedric, and sighs. "Just be there for them. That's all you can do, really."

Harry nods his acknowledgement, slumps back in his seat, and stares out into the yard. Cedric sleeps on, Ethan surfs the Internet on his phone, and the night passes them by.

As he dwells on all he's learned that night, and as he broods over he and Quinn's current problems, Harry's certain it's one of the longest nights of his life.

 **Author's Note:** Over fifty thousand words. I confess, I'm a little surprised, for a variety of reasons. Hope you've enjoyed. Until next time, -t.


	35. Part 1: Chapter 35: Move On

**Welcome to the Jungle**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter, or Glee. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Part One: Fifteen**

 **Chapter Thirty-Five: move On**

In the morning, Harry's shift at the Steam House passes in a mindless haze. His mind is still at Seamus' house where, as expected, Cedric is nursing a truly monstrous hangover in the care of Ethan, who can't decide whether or not he ought to be sympathetic to his friend's plight, or utterly merciless.

In particular, Harry's thoughts are on the revelations of the night prior, and on the question of how he ought to proceed in the days and weeks to come. He has every intention of being there for Cedric, and for Cho if she wishes it, but the question of whether or not he ought to do more remains, as does the quandary of what, exactly, that ' _more_ ' entails.

"Wild night?" Hermione asks during a lull in the breakfast rush. Ron is a machine, desperate not to slow down lest he fall asleep on his feet, and he looks like hell. Harry hasn't checked, but he probably looks the same. He certainly feels it.

"Something like that. How was yours?"

"I actually had a date," Hermione admits.

"Oh?"

"With Mike," she adds. She looks uncertain, and it occurs to him - belatedly - that she's worried about his response.

"That's cool," Harry replies, "He's liked you for a while."

Harry wonders, briefly, if he should be concerned by the fact Hermione has started dating Mike literally _days_ after learning that Viktor's now dating Fleur, but he opts not to ask. Hermione and Mike are smart enough to make their own choices where their respective relationships are concerned, and moreover, he finds himself already embroiled in more relationship drama than he really knows what to do with. It's perhaps selfish, but Harry would sooner avoid getting involved in another couple's problems.

As is, he's having a hard enough time dealing with whatever is going on between he and Quinn at present, and he has no business getting involved in anyone else's relationship troubles. His inclusion into Cho and Cedric's grief is something he hopes will never be repeated, mostly because he has no idea how to help his friends through it, and if Harry's lucky, Ron's not going to turn him into a sounding board for whatever the hell is going on with he and Lavender Brown.

"I've liked him too," Hermione admits, "I just didn't want to dive right into a new relationship after Viktor, you know? The fact it's kind of tacky aside, I guess I needed to take a step back; reevaluate what I want in a partner, and in a relationship, as well."

"Make's sense," harry replies, and in the dining area, a patron raises his hand to get his attention. He nods his acknowledgement, and offers Hermione an apologetic shrug. "Duty calls."

They don't get much of a chance to chat throughout the remainder of their shared shift. The cafe's busy, and what lulls in the chaos they _do_ get, they're spent ferrying used crockery and the like between the dining area and the kitchen. All the while, Gemma watches over them like an overbearing sentinel, and the woman is far too intimidating for any of them to brave an attempt at idleness beyond the half hour lunch breaks they take consecutively.

That said, it's a relief when they each clock out, and more so when they are able to collapse around an empty table. They're each exhausted, their feet aching, and although Ron's got plans for an extended afternoon nap before his date that evening, Harry's only plans consist of assisting with the preparations for Kate's birthday party movie night sleepover thing.

While they wait for their respective lifts, Hermione trudges up to the counter to order a drink for each of them. Ron stares blankly at the middle distance, exhausted and probably still a little hungover, and Harry takes the opportunity to check his phone. There's a voice message from Cho, apologising for her meltdown the night prior, and also offering her gratitude for the way he'd handled everything, for being a shoulder to cry on, so forth and so forth.

There's a text from Cedric, thanking him for watching out for Cho, and also informing Harry that Ethan has enlightened Cedric on Harry's knowledge of the situation. He doesn't promise that they'll talk about it, but Harry's certain to text them both with word that he's there to listen, if they ever wish to talk, and also to inform them that he has no intention of passing the information on to anyone else.

Aside from them, Puck and Santana have texted, with word the party they'd attended the night before had been a drag, and if he's honest with himself, Harry feels a little vindicated. His own gathering hadn't turned out nearly as well as he'd anticipated, but at least the police hadn't been called on them.

Notably, there isn't a text from Quinn waiting for him, and as a result, Harry's rather tentative when he sends her a text instead. It's nothing special, just a 'Hey, how are you?' and after it's sent, he sets his phone aside with a weary sigh.

Ron shakes himself from his daze, blinks rapidly, and queries, "Everything okay?"

Harry shrugs. He can't complain, really - someone's surely having a worse day than him - but still… "I've had better days."

Hermione returns with their drinks in hand, and she sits back down with a grateful sigh. Ron distributes their drinks, and he slumps over his, content to bask in it's warmth, or perhaps the aroma.

Harry's not quite sure which. Maybe both.

"So, Mike," Harry broaches, "Did your date go well?"

"We had a great time," Hermione answers, and there's a cheerful grin on her face, "We went to Java Lava for dinner, and we walked to the library afterwards. They had a poetry slam going on, and most of the poets were actually quite good. Not all of them, of course, but I thought it was very entertaining."

Java Lava is a cafe near the library, a 24 hour place that has a regular open mic night and some sinfully good coffee. He loves the Steam House, is absurdly proud of what his mother's achieved with it, but a person can't eat and drink the same stuff all day every day without growing bored of it.

Hence, his - and his family's - occasional sojourns to Java Lava.

"Well, I'm glad you had a good time," Harry acknowledges. "Did Mike?"

"I think so," Hermione replies, "He asked if we could go out again, so I'm optimistic."

"I think you two will be good for each other," Ron says decisively. He's been quiet up until this point, and Harry's a little startled by the redhead's declaration. Hermione is, too. Ron shrugs, a little defensive. "You two have a lot more in common than you do with Viktor. I mean, Krum's my friend and everything, but he doesn't really give a shit about the same things you do. NO offence."

Hermione smiles, unruffled. "None taken. I know what you mean. He's a nice guy, but as you said, we didn't have much in common. It was horrible when we broke up, but in retrospect, I can recognise that it was definitely for the best. I just hope we'll be able to be friends some day. I do miss his company."

Ron shrugs, noncommittal. "Anything's possible."

Harry's phone buzzes to life with a text from his father, who waits for Harry outside. He takes a moment to frown over the fact that Quinn still hasn't replied, but shrugs it off to wish Ron the best of luck for his date that evening, and to wish Hermione the same for her new adventure (such as it is) with Mike.

Afterwards, he retrieves his takeaway cup of cocoa (the good kind, of course), and steps out into the cold of January in Ohio. His father, as indicated, idles in the parking lot outside, and Harry gracelessly clambers into the passenger seat, eager to get out of the cold.

"How was work?" James greets him.

Harry shrugs. "It was work. Same old crap, different day. Gemma's as terrifying as ever. I don't know why she doesn't just join the army. She'll be a Drill Sergeant in no time."

James snorts as he pulls into traffic. "And how was last night?"

"It was fine." He prays, briefly, that the man's too focused on driving to read Harry's micro-expressions, but it's mostly just wishful thinking on his part.

James Potter always notices.

"Right," he drawls sardonically, and then asks, utterly serious, "Is there anything I need to worry about?"

"I don't think so," Harry answers, "it's nothing like that. Just, you know, drama."

He cringes as he says it, because it's an explanation that completely trivialises Cedric and Cho's choice, and loss, and grief, but he's not comfortable with explaining the truth for a multitude of reasons.

Mercifully, his father doesn't pry. Not yet, anyway. Instead, he focuses on the road, and the remainder of the car ride is spent in silence.

-!- -#-

Kate's playing the piano when they get home. Harry sidles up behind her, and tugs her into a bear hug. It's actually her 14th birthday today, and the present he gives her (a new wallet, an iTunes gift card, and a box of her favourite chocolate) is accepted gratefully and without reservation.

"Happy Birthday, Kit-Kat," he says, and this time, it's Kate who hugs him, brief, but fierce.

"Thanks," she says, "For the presents, too. Are you going to hang out with us tonight?"

Harry shrugs. He's not thrilled by the prospect, but it's Kate's birthday, so… "If you want me to."

He helps to clean up downstairs until it's spotless, and then leaves his mother, grandmother, and sister to sort out the snacks while he showers, and then takes a nap.

When he wakes from his nap, it's just passed five, and Quinn still hasn't replied. Kate's fluttering about though, excited and what have you, and Harry opts to leave confronting Quinn - and whatever the fuck is going on with her - until tomorrow.


	36. Part 1: Chapter 36: Rumour Has It

**Welcome to the Jungle**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter, or Glee. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Part One: Fifteen**

 **Chapter Thirty-Six: Rumour Has It**

Harry receives a text from Matt early on Sunday, with a request to meet up after they both finish work for the day. Matt works at McDonald's, which turns out to suck as much as Harry imagines, but it guarantees spending money and work experience, and at 15, beggars can't really be choosers as far as employment is concerned.

In this particular instance, Matt begrudgingly endures the early shift, and Harry, a little bemused, agrees to meet with him after they've both clocked off for the afternoon. As is, Harry's got a few more hours left of his shift, and between serving customers, waiting tables, and everything else, the time passes quickly. Ron's distracted, his thoughts on Lavender and their (successful) date the night before, but it's easy to find something to talk about with his other coworkers, and eventually, Harry's shift comes to a welcome end.

Harry's mum, Lily, drops him off at Matt's, where the latter is freshly washed, and mowing his way through a couple of grilled cheese sandwiches, and where his mom, Maureen, greets Harry fondly.

As far as middle-aged women go, Mrs Rutherford is fairly attractive, short and curvy, with an open, expressive face and an unguarded, unassuming kindness. Harry's met her a few times now, during drop-offs and pick-ups and the like, and as far as parents go, she seems pretty cool…

"Hey, honey, how was your Christmas?"

"It was great, Mrs Rutherford," Harry answers, "I had a wonderful time. How was yours? Matt mentioned you guys had a full house?"

"We did, and it was great fun," Maureen replies, "Chaos, of course, but I'd say that was the best part."

"The food was better," Matt deadpans from the dining table. Mrs Rutherford flicks him on the forehead for the trouble, Matt scowls, and Harry grins despite himself.

"Anyway, hun, did you want something to eat?"

"No thanks, Mrs Rutherford," Harry denies, "We get a free meal with each shift, so I've already eaten. I appreciate the offer, though."

Mrs Rutherford eyes him doubtfully, but acquiesces with a shrug. "If you change your mind, just tell Matt. He knows where everything is."

Matt rolls his eyes, unimpressed and long-suffering, and Harry nods, laughing. "Will do, Mrs Rutherford."

She wanders off to do her own thing, and Harry idly wonders where her husband is. Matt finishes his lunch, and he leads Harry downstairs, into the basement Mr and Mrs Rutherford have converted into an impressively stocked media room. There are a variety of video game consoles, shelves upon shelves of games, DVD's, and CD's, and the centrepiece, of course, is the 54" LCD flat screen mounted on the back wall.

"Why do we never come over here for game nights?"

"Because I don't actually like Hudson, and if I invite Puck over, then I have to invite him, too."

"Touché," Harry concedes. "Are we playing games then, or…?"

Matt shakes his head, no, and gestures for Harry to get comfortable. As he does so, Matt explains, "I actually wanted to tell you something."

"Oh?"

"Have you heard much about the party at Tegan Spicer's place?"

"Puck and Santana were complaining about the police being called," Harry shrugs, "Other than that, not really. I haven't had much time to go online."

Matt nods, seeming unsurprised. "You know I went with Puck and Finn, right? San, Brit, and Q, as well."

Harry nods his acknowledgement, unsurprised by this fact. They'd been planning it all since Wednesday, and although he wasn't involved himself, Harry hadn't been able to avoid the details. "You crashed at Puck's."

"That's right," Matt confirms, "Hudson was supposed to, as well, but we lost him when we had to run. You know, from the cops. We thought he was caught, but he texted Puck later, said he just went home."

"Okay?" Harry can't figure out what Matt wants him to know, but he is inexplicably nervous. His hands tremble where they are clasped together between his knees, and there is a bubble of something - panic, maybe? - inside his chest that makes it kind of hard to breathe. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because San and Brit were separated from Q on Friday night, too, and she didn't crash at Santana's like she was supposed to." Matt sighs, and tugs roughly at the ends of his braids, "This really fucking sucks, dude, but they were looking pretty damn cozy on Friday. Puck and San were in a different part of the house, so they wouldn't have seen it, and Brit was trashed, but Q and Finn were dancing, and it wasn't exactly friendly."

Harry's first response is denial. What Matt is implying, it's almost ludicrous. Quinn's taken the 'Golden Promise' - or whatever the fuck it's called - and the thought that she'd have pre-marital sex despite her devotion to her faith, and her determination to abide by her vow? It's almost absurd.

'Almost' being the operative word, of course. The cause for doubt is the knowledge that Harry hasn't heard from Quinn all weekend, and he can't even justify the radio silence with knowledge of the disagreement that still festers between them. They'd still been talking on Friday afternoon, after all.

"So you think, what? Quinn slept over at Hudson's? That she had sex with hiM?"

"I don't know, dude," Matt answers, "I don't want to assume. I'm just stating the facts as I know them: Q and Finn were getting pretty frisky at the party, and they both went MIA when we all had to split. I don't know what you want to do with this information - if anything - but I figured you should know, either way."

Harry exhales through his nose, cards his hands through his hair, and tugs roughly at the roots. His hands shake, and it feels as though his heart is about to beat right out of his chest. He's surprised by Matt's revelations, but through it, the disappointment, the anger, and the sadness is an unpleasant churn in his gut. He can't tell who it's directed towards - Matt, Quinn, maybe himself - but Harry stews in it, unsure of what to do - or where to go - from there.

Matt sighs. "I'm sorry, man."

He looks it, too, his expression - and his whole body, really - racked with guilt.

"It's not your fault," Harry answers monotonously, stands abruptly, and hesitates. "Thanks for telling me, Matt. It's shit, and you didn't have to, so I appreciate it."

Matt's smile is small. "No sweat, dude. I got your back."

"I think I might go for a walk. I need to think, or something."

Harry would actually prefer to punch something - Finn Hudson's face comes to mind - but since that's not an option…

"Sure, dude," Matt acknowledges, and follows Harry to the door. Harry tugs his coat, beanie, and gloves on mechanically. It's cold out, but the sun is shining, and there is no indication of that day's predicted snow storm in sight. In the hallway, hands burrowed in the front pocket of his Cleveland Cavaliers pullover, Matt requests, "Be careful, yeah?"

"Sure thing," Harry shoves his gloved hands into the pockets of his coat, "Will do. Thanks, again."

Matt nods, and Harry meanders off the Rutherford's porch, content simply to head in the direction of home. His temper simmers beneath his skin, his thoughts circle around his head - Quinn, Finn, _himself_ , Matt, the party, the truth - in a tireless, unending loop, and without conscious thought, Harry's feet lead him to Mr and Mrs Fabray's front door. He'd known, abstractly, that Matt and Quinn lived close to each other, but he hadn't realised exactly how close that was until he found himself wandering down Quinn's street, in front of her house, on her parents' front porch.

Now he stands there, probably under the scrutiny of the neighbours, and contemplating whether or not he should ring the doorbell, or if he should just continue on his way home. He has no idea whether or not Matt's non-assumptions are true, but the uncertainty isn't something he can live with for long. As such, and despite his misgivings, Harry mentally braces himself, and resolves to find out.

He rings the doorbell, and Mrs Fabray answers. She's still dressed in her church clothes, but her hair is down, and her face is bereft of makeup.

"Hi, Harry, honey," Mrs Fabray greets kindly, "What a pleasant surprise! We weren't expecting you."

"Hi, Mrs Fabray. I'm sorry to pop in unannounced, but I was in the area, and it was kind of a spur of the moment thing. How are you?"

Harry proceeds through the usual chit chat with Mrs Fabray on autopilot. Most of his focus is on the conversation (re: confrontation) he's about to have with Quinn, and the unerring feeling that regardless of how well it goes, he's going to be single when he leaves later.

If he's honest with himself, the awareness of that fact leaves him tempted just to make his excuses to Mrs Fabray, to retreat before he has to come face to face with Quinn, to shut her out until the situation resolves itself, but Harry can't do that. It's not fair on either of them - not that it's particularly fair right now, but whatever - and in all honesty, Harry would rather just get it - the unpleasantness and uncertainty - out of the way, and over and done with.

"I'll go get Quinn, shall I?" Mrs Fabray asks, and walks away before Harry can reply.

Harry, meanwhile, loiters in the hallway, studies the family photos there, and waits, anxiously, for Quinn's arrival.

It doesn't take her long.

"What are you doing here?" Quinn sounds hostile, and Harry responds accordingly.

"You weren't replying to my texts. I thought I'd check if you were still alive. Why do you think I'm here, Quinn? We need to talk."

Quinn flinches, though that's no particular surprise. Those words are portentous, predicting an unpleasant, unwelcome conversation ahead, and everyone dreads hearing them. Quinn is no exception.

She sighs, looking inexplicably weary, and resigns herself to it. "Let's go downstairs. My parents won't hear us there."

Harry nods his acknowledgement, and gestures vaguely, a sarcastic, insincere smile on his face. "Lead the way."

 **Author's Note:** Last chapter was the first where I didn't get any reviews. Are you guys and gals all right? Is that weird to ask?

No lie, I'm about as annoyed that the current Quinn/Harry drama has been dragged out as long as it has. Next chapter will be the one, I hope.

Until next time, -t.


	37. Part 1: Chapter 37: Truth Hurts

**Welcome to the Jungle**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter, or Glee. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Part One: Fifteen**

 **Chapter Thirty-Seven: Truth Hurts**

The basement in Quinn's home has been converted into a small apartment, used predominantly by Quinn's older sister, Fran, whenever she visits Lima. Quinn, however, has taken to using it - barring the bedroom, anyway - in order to give herself a bit of space from her often overbearing parents.

Harry knows this, not because she tells him as she leads him there, but because she's explained it to him in the past. Their walk, meanwhile, is spent in an uncomfortable, unpleasant silence, and the quarterback wonders sardonically if it's too late to leave.

When they reach the basement, Harry discovers that Quinn's made up a nest of blankets in front of the TV, 'Gossip Girl' on pause, and a chocolate sundae (with all the trimmings) haphazardly deposited on the coffee table. Accompanied by the clothing she wears - nondescript sweats, an old T-shirt, and fuzzy socks on her feet - it paints the picture of a quiet, lazy day spent in comfort and solitude.

Harry almost feels bad for disrupting her plans.

Almost, being the operative word.

"What are you doing here?" Quinn repeats. She holds herself defensively, arms crossed over her chest, expression guarded, and he wonders when he became the enemy.

"I told you," Harry answers, "We need to talk, but you weren't answering my texts or calls. I decided to be proactive."

"You should have called."

"Why, so you could ignore that call, too? Or so you could tell me not to come, and confirm that you've actually been receiving my texts - you're just not replying to them?" Quinn flinches. Harry pauses. "I think not, Q."

Quinn sighs, retrieves her ice cream, and wanders into the kitchenette. She deposits it - bowl, spoon, and all - in the freezer, and then returns to the living area. There, she drops onto the couch, gestures vaguely for Harry to make himself comfortable in the armchair, and acquiesces, "Let's talk, then."

It's tempting to remain standing, but Harry's been on his feet all morning, and the walk over hasn't exactly done him any favours. As such, he settles himself in the seat offered, rolls back his shoulders to try and relieve the tension that's built up there, and meets Quinn's gaze.

"What's going on, Q?" Harry asks, "You've been acting weird ever since I got back from Breckenridge."

"There's nothing wrong," Quinn insists.

"Really? Because the silent treatment says otherwise." He drops his phone and wallet onto the coffee table, right beside his coat and scarf, "But if you're not going to answer that, can you at least explain to me what the deal is with the silent treatment?"

Quinn averts her gaze. "I just needed some alone time. I'm sorry."

"You just needed some alone time," Harry repeats, flat and unimpressed.

Quinn shrugs, defensive, but mostly just weary. She's probably about as over this conversation - such as it is - as Harry himself. All the same, they both persist. "What else did you want me to say?"

What does he want her to say? He wants her to explain why she's been acting so hot and cold since his return from his family's holiday to Colorado. He wants to know where she went on Friday night, if she spent it with Finn Hudson, and if so, what she did with him. Mostly, though, he wants to know where her head and heart are at, if he's just wasting his time here, if they should just cut their losses, to put this relationship behind them and move on with their lives.

Strengthening his resolve, Harry goes for broke. He's probably going to end up single either way, he might as well leave an impression.

"Did you spend Friday night at Hudson's place, Quinn?"

"Where did you hear that?" Quinn's gaze - startled, horrified, and damningly, blatantly guilty - meets his, and the fight leaves Harry in the blink of an eye. He can't even muster up the energy to be angry, though he's sure that will come in time. Mostly, he's just sad, tired, and stupidly, inexplicably disappointed.

"Right," he acknowledges her unspoken answer, "And did you have sex with him, too?"

Even as Harry mentally cringes at his confrontational, caustic tone, he doesn't retract the question. He needs confirmation, verification that he's not jumping to the wrong conclusion. It could be that Quinn was just plastered, and Finn took her to his place to sleep it off. He _needs_ it to be the case, because he's not sure how to cope with the alternative.

Quinn flinches, but does not reply. She is not offended by the question, she is not irate by his audacity in asking, not outraged by his doubt. She is mute, her gaze on the coffee table, and it is all the answer he needs..

"Right," Harry repeats, and he kind of wants to throw up. He doesn't though, and instead, he reaches forward to retrieve his phone and wallet, stands up, and pockets them without looking at the blonde. He dons his coat and scarf, ensures his beanie and gloves are secure in his pockets, and adds, "Thanks for your time today, I guess. I'd better go."

"Already?" Quinn asks. She looks startled, and he wonders, bitterly, what the hell she expects from him.

"Why the bloody hell would I stay?"

Quinn averts her gaze again, but she nods. She doesn't say anything else.

Harry knows, distantly, that he ought to be angry, to rant and rage and what the fuck ever else, but as his new reality washes over him, Harry's just numb. The anger will come later - probably when he next sees Finn Hudson's stupid, annoying face - but for now, he walks to the door, desperate to leave the stifling confines of Mr and Mrs Fabray's basement.

At the door, Harry hesitates, and without looking back, he informs her, "I hope he was fucking worth it, Q."

Harry leaves then, through the back door in order to avoid her parents. He doesn't look back, but behind him, Quinn drops her head into her hands, and starts to cry.

-!- -#-

It's all rather anticlimactic, Harry reflects on his way home. There isn't a fight, there isn't any melodramatic begging to stay. There isn't even a declaration that they're over. There are just questions, there is just the truth, and there are the jagged edges of his trust, broken and scattered, and unlikely to ever be repaired.

Somehow, it feels worse than he imagined it would.

Because they hadn't fought it out, Harry hasn't had the opportunity to vent his hurt, and so it festers inside him instead, a pulsing, throbbing thing. He is undeniably upset - close to tears, even - but as he dwells on it, as he broods over all that he's learned today, the anger builds up, simmers beneath his skin, a wild, frothing creature that is desperate to break free, and Harry has no outlet for it.

All he has are his thoughts, and a long, exhausting walk home. He could call for a lift, of course - between his parents and grandparents, there will be _someone_ available to retrieve him - but the last thing Harry wants right now is to deal with people, and the inevitable questions as to why, exactly, he's decided to walk the streets of Lima's northern suburbs in the middle of winter.

Harry just wants to be alone, actually, and so he keeps on walking, and eventually, he makes it home. There, he has a shower, and afterwards, he makes himself some hot cocoa. Both are mostly to warm up after his walk, but he liberates a couple of the chocolate pecan brownies his mother had made for Kate's birthday thing, and they're entirely for his own (emotional) comfort. As such, he enjoys them as Kate watches an episode of 'Futurama' and then retreats downstairs to be alone again. Not before he refuses to answer all of Kate's questions about what was wrong with him, how he'd gotten home, and where he'd been, however.

-!- -#-

In the solitude of his bedroom, Harry blasts a playlist of loud, angry music through his speakers, strips down to his sweats, and attempts to sweat out everything he's feeling through exercise. He can't beat the shit out of Finn Hudson - doesn't even want to make the effort, really - and Mike's got another date with Hermione, so a spar's out of the question, as well. It means, however, that exercise is probably the least destructive outlet of his temper available to him at present, and so Harry loses count of all the push-ups, sit-ups, and crunches he does.

Through it all, he does not feel better. Instead, he is plagued with questions he'll probably never get answered, but he wonders all the same. What is so deplorable about him that Quinn found it in herself to seek comfort in someone else's arms, in spite of her commitment to not only him, but also to herself and her Faith? How long had it been going on for? When did it all go wrong, and the most persistent: why the fuck was it Finn Hudson? What is so special about the jolly fucking giant that makes girls bend over backwards to receive even a scrap of attention from him?

Harry groans, stretched out on his floor, head in his hands. He's exhausted - physically, mentally, emotionally - and he can't find the energy to haul himself off the hardwood. He's drenched in sweat, his entire body the consistency of jelly, and if any more emotional turmoil is thrown his way before this hellish weekend is over, he might just start crying.

With that in mind, Harry closes his eyes, tries hard to fall asleep, and prays that tomorrow will be better. His playlist hadn't continued after the first cycle through, and no one's sought him out for their usual - more or less mandatory - family night. As such, he falls asleep quickly. The next thing Harry knows, it's barely dawn, his body fiercely protests all of the exercise (and his sleeping arrangements, too), and nothing has changed..

.

 **Author's Note:** Quinn and Harry's confrontation was never going to be a huge blow out fight or whatever. Mostly, it's because I'm non-confrontational to a literal fault (like, it's actually a problem), and I therefore have no idea how to write them with the appropriate expression and emotion. Also, in my head, it didn't fit their relationship. They never reached that point where they're both comfortable with yelling at each other, you know what I mean?

Anyway, I imagine this chapter's disappointed a fair few of you, but I've spent a great deal of my weekend (before I got sucked into the Bucky/Darcy time travel trope in the Avengers universe, anyway) fretting over it, and I'm just so done. Not exactly thrilled with it, mind you, but I'm not very good at writing the intense emotional stuff. Why did I decide to include romance, again?

Hope you enjoyed it, regardless.…

Thanks for all of your lovely reviews. I wasn't expecting that. Virtual hugs, folks, because I can't give you the real sort. You're all wonderful, and I'm so grateful for your support.

All right, I think I've said everything I want to, so peace out, and all that. Until next time, -t.


	38. Part 1: Chapter 38: Life Goes On

**Welcome to the Jungle**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter, or Glee. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Part One: Fifteen**

 **Chapter Thirty Eight: Life Goes On**

In the fallout of Harry and Quinn's breakup, their mutual friends treat it something like a divorce. Harry gets Mike, Matt, and Hermione, Quinn gets Santana, Brittany, and Finn, and Puck is the hypothetical offspring, the one they share custody of, drifting between them, and caught awkwardly in the middle.

It's an analogy that's not wholly accurate, of course. Santana and Brittany, neither of whom are particularly impressed with Finn or Quinn, are still unabashedly, unrepentantly his friends. They still hang out with him outside of school hours, still call, still behave as they always have. Rather than share the same lunch table, however, they - and Quinn - sit with the Cheerio's, Finn with the football team, and it's a change they each accept bitterly, belligerently, begrudgingly.

It's gratifying that all of them - Mike, Matt, Santana and Brittany - each agree that Finn's and Quinn's decisions were deplorable. Santana, in particular, is rather scathing, and Harry's not sure he's ever appreciated her more.

Hermione, of course, is about as wrathful as a woman scorned, and she spends the entire week loudly and openly insulting Quinn for anyone and everyone to hear. Between her and Santana, word of the entire debacle is quickly spread among the lowerclassmen, and Quinn soon finds herself dubbed 'The Whore of Babylon', among the student population of William McKinley High.

It goes without saying that Quinn's continued involvement with the Celibacy Club has become something of a joke, and Harry wonders idly if he ought to feel bad about the fact that he has made no move to curb the rumours, insults, and general shunning of Quinn and Finn. He hadn't realised how highly people in his class thought of him, but the fact they take his side - such as it is - on this?

Harry won't lie: It feels really fucking good. More so is watching Finn make his awkward turtle moves on Quinn, and watching her, subsequently, rebuff him at every turn. Without a doubt, it's too little too late, but it's one of the highlights of his week.

In any case, by Friday afternoon, they've all settled into a new normal. It's weird, sometimes, not having Quinn right there to talk books or movies or music with, to tell her about his day, to listen to her talk about her own, but her absence - such as it is - is not debilitating. It's weird, too, to avoid eye contact with her in the halls, and in the classes they share, but it's not a trial, either.

In that week, Harry learns he can live without Quinn Fabray, and the knowledge buoys him. He's still angry of course, still tempted to punch Finn Hudson's face in every time Harry sees the asshole, but he works hard not to let it - the anger, the sadness, the sense of betrayal - take over his life. Instead, Harry focuses on everything else - his schooling, his work, his friends and family - and looks forward to the day everyone says will come in time; the one where it won't hurt anymore to look at her, to think about what she's done, to remember what they had been before it all went tits up. Harry's not sure if he loved Quinn - he's not sure what love is, really - but he misses her anyway, and he doesn't like to feel like this.

Maybe Puck's onto something, with the hedonist, nymphomaniac, bed-hopping lifestyle. He certainly seems happier for it.

"You played well tonight," Cedric drops into the empty seat beside Harry. Behind them, nearer to the back of the bus, their respective teams are in high spirits. "I thought you might be distracted, given everything."

It was the first basketball game of the season, an away game against one of the other high schools in Lima. WMHS won each game they played (womens and mens both), and it's a pleasant, auspicious start to the team's competition season. He hopes the rest of it goes so well.

"You weren't," Harry points out. Cedric's resulting smile is mirthless, and the knowledge that a high school breakup isn't the be all and end all of suffering is sobering. It certainly puts things into perspective. "How are you?"

Cedric shrugs. "I'm getting by."

"And Cho?"

Cedric's quiet for a long time, and Harry expects he won't get an answer. "She's okay."

"I'm sorry." Harry has no idea what else to say.

Cedric shrugs again, and stares blankly at the headrest in front of him. "Not your fault."

They sit in silence for what is left of the bus ride back to their school, though it's not unpleasant. It doesn't take them long to reach WMHS though, and the bus empties quickly, their fellow basketball players eager to get a start on their weekend plans and, in particular, the post-game party at Montague's.

"Are you going?" Cedric asks. He nods his head towards Montague, surrounded by a cluster of players, cheerleaders, and assorted hanger-ons, "His parties are always pretty good."

Harry hesitates. "I wasn't going to. I'd probably be shit company."

Cedric shrugs. "So?"

Puck, Mike, and Matt approach them then, accompanied by Brittany and Santana. The latter bitches loudly about the cold as they near, and unrepentantly tucks herself under Harry's arm.

"Yo, are we getting drunk tonight, or what?" she asks.

"Say that a little louder, Satan," Puck rolls his eyes, "I don't think Hooch heard you."

She gives Puck the bird, and glances at Harry, hopeful. "Are you coming, or what?"

It's Brittany's earnest, hopeful face that makes him relent, and Harry resigns himself to another endless Friday night.

He prays it won't be as terrible as the last.

-!- -#-

Montague's party is the place to be that weekend, so it's packed to the rafters. The heavy bass of someone's EDM trash reverberates through his skull, and Harry can barely hear himself think over all of the conversations around him. Congratulations, back slaps and toasts are passed around like sweets to the triumphant athletes, but the house - and accompanying scrutiny - is stifling, and Harry quickly retreats to the backyard to get some fresh air.

Katie Bell finds him there, a blanket in hand she's quick to throw over the both of them. She curls up beside him on the porch swing, and Harry's absurdly conscious of her closeness.

"It's kind of crazy in there, isn't it?"

"It is," Harry agrees, "I can see why Fred and George don't come to these anymore."

Katie nods her agreement, rifles through the pockets of her coat and jeans, and produces her iPod and headphones. "Same here. What do you think, should we listen to some decent music, or what?"

Harry grins. "I like the way you think, Bell."

Harry's only shared a few conversations with Katie, so it's a little odd, this instantaneous camaraderie he shares with the older girl, but he doesn't dislike it. More importantly, she has excellent taste in music.

"You like Blink 182?"

Katie scoffs. "Uh, duh. Who doesn't?"

Harry grins. He's just scrolled through the entire list of artists stored on her iPod, and he's kind of impressed. "Bell, I think this is the start of a beautiful friendship."

They sit there for hours, listening to some good tunes and shooting the breeze, and it's the best time Harry's had since New Years.

 **Author's Note:** You know what I'd really like to be reading right now? A fem!HP/Bucky Barnes WWII era story wherein Bucky and Steve aren't ridiculously codependent. Turns out? I really don't like Captain America. Go figure.

Anyway guys, hope you liked this chapter. I like it because it shows Harry can be a little petty, with the not trying to curb the rumours thing, and also, I really love the mention of Hermione in this chapter. It's a little ridiculous to say, since I wrote it, but whatever.

Anyway, thanks for reviewing. I loved reading all your thoughts about the breakup. Until next time, -t.


	39. Part 1: Chapter 39: Move Along

**Welcome to the Jungle**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter or Glee. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Part One: Fifteen**

 **Chapter Thirty-Nine: Move Along**

In the weeks that follow he and Quinn's breakup, Harry's life falls into a routine of school, work, and his various extracurricular activities. Ron and Hermione are both in the honeymoon phase of their respective relationships, which makes work occasionally awkward, but surprisingly, Kate doesn't suck as a coworker, and in fact, they're probably closer than they've ever been. They have inside jokes now, mutual friends and a lot of Steam House stories to tell, and if he's honest with himself, Harry doesn't hate it. He'll never admit it, of course, but it's not something he and Kate care to talk about, anyway.

Subsequently busy with everything, time flies. Before Harry knows it, it's almost Valentine's Day, and it only stings a little bit that he won't be spending it with Quinn. She's finally relented to Finn's overtures, though according to Santana, it's only because she doesn't want to be single on the 14th.

"And true to form, Hudson's too stupid to see through that horse shit," Matt glibly opines.

"Naturally," Santana blandly replies.

"Finn isn't Quinn's lobster," Brittany pouts, "I don't know why she's wasting her time."

There's a moment wherein Mike, Matt, and Harry share in each other's confusion, but Santana, who is apparently fluent in Brittany, is completely unfazed.

"Relationships are like trying on clothes, Brit," Santana gently informs her, "Quinn will have to try on a few dresses before she finds the perfect one."

"Ouch," harry mutters, wincing. Matt and Mike offer him sympathetic glances.

"Don't worry," Brittany consoles him with a one-armed hug, "You'll find your lobster, too."

"I hope so, Brit."

Mercifully, Mike starts talking about his plans with Hermione for Valentine's Day, and the subject entertains the girls until the first bell of the morning blares across the school grounds. Matt and Harry mostly occupy themselves with the breakfast croissants courtesy of Lily Potter, but they're both careful to listen, lest Mike call them out on their inattention later.

Until they're required to be elsewhere, anyway.

"We'd better go," Mike sighs, "Emily Dickinson awaits."

Don't front, dude, we all know why you really want to get to class," Matt teases, good-natured.

Mike punches him in the arm for the trouble. "Screw you, asshole."

They make their way towards the English Department among the throng the students, resigned to another day at William McKinley High. Santana and Matt heckle Mike as they walk, and around them, their classmates give their group a wide berth. The others are oblivious, Brittany content to swing she and Harry's linked hands between them, but Harry notices.

It would be amusing, perhaps, if not for the fact that Harry knows the precise reason why their peers avoid them like the plague, and it has nothing to do with common courtesy. It's their uniforms, actually - the Cheerio tracksuits and the Titans pullovers - and Harry bitterly wonders if anyone sees beyond the clothes to the students who wear them, or if they've all been tarred with the same 'brainless, douchebag jock' brush.

"This is us," Mike peels away from Santana and Matt, unabashedly grateful for the escape, "You ready, dude?"

"Yeah," Harry answers. Brittany gives him a hug before he goes, but he follows Mike into their classroom a moment later, and the others - Santana, Matt, and Brittany - wander off to their own class.

Mike sits in the empty seat beside Hermione, and Harry tactfully drops into a seat in front of them. He's seated beside Rachel Berry as a result, but at least this way, he doesn't have to watch his friends play footsie, or pass notes, or indulge in their weird, verbal foreplay.

As Hermione and Mike greet each other, Harry busies himself with a quick revision of his homework. Beside him, Berry taps out a beat on her desk with her glittery purple gel pen, and mouths lyrics to herself as she waits for their class to start. Harry watches briefly, inexplicably reminded of his sister, but then turns to speak with his friends before the girl can catch him out.

"Have you got plans for Valentine's, Harry?" Hermione asks.

"Santana's got some sort of singles thing at her place," Harry answers, "She said something about an orgy, but I'm pretty sure she was joking."

Santana's got no inhibitions regarding her sexual appetites, but she's always been very careful to make sure to avoid pressuring anyone into anything they may or may not be comfortable with, or prepared for. Consent is a very big deal for her, and coercion only makes her angry, so to invite people to a party with an orgy in the itinerary?

It doesn't seem likely. ,

"Matt's going to that, right?" Mike asks.

"Yeah," Harry confirms, "Brit and Puck, too. No dates allowed, and invite only."

"It'll probably just be drinking games," Mike determines.

"Joy," Harry deadpans.

Mike shrugs. "You never know, you might enjoy yourself."

"I'm sure," Harry replies, and they each pretend he's not lying. Their teacher arrives, their class begins, and the day drags on.

-!- -#-

Kate's actually got a date for the Valentine's Day weekend. He's a friend of hers, by the name of Colin, and he's tall and as skinny as a rake in that awkward, gangly way that speaks of puberty and rapid-fire growth spurts, and Harry sympathises.

"Hi," he greets Harry. He's a jittery mess, but he's tidied up for the occasion, casual as it seems to be. "I'm Colin."

"Hi," Harry greets him, "Kate's just getting her bag. She won't be a minute."

Indeed, Kate rushes downstairs with her satchel slung across her chest. She's clad in a pair of skinny jeans and her faithful purple high-tops, and the only indication she's made any effort at all is the light amount of makeup she wears.

"Hi, Colin," Kate greets him, "I hope Harry wasn't giving you any trouble?"

"I didn't get the chance to," Harry deadpans. Nor can he really be bothered to make the effort. As far as he is concerned, he'll leave the role of overprotective, intimidating relative to he and Kate's father, who actually has the credentials to back it up.

That aside, Kate can look after herself, and given that Harry knows exactly how good she is at Karate, Taekwando and Judo, he'd rather not get on her bad side..

Kate flashes him a grin as she brushes passed,

"Have fun tonight, Kit-Kat."

Kate shares a glance with Colin, and when she looks back at him, her smile is smaller - somehow gentler - but no less genuine for it. "We will."

-!- -#-

Harry's parents drop him off at Santana's on their way to a dinner date in Toledo, with reminders to call his grandparents if he needs help, and also to text one of them once he's safely home. Harry assures them he will with a roll of his eyes, bids them a good night, and leaves the car.

Unsurprisingly, they wait until he's been let inside the house to pull away from the curb, but Harry pretends he doesn't notice, and Santana doesn't bring any attention to the fact.

"Hey," he greets her, "You look nice."

Santana shows off her figure in a red, form-fitting blouse and a pair of black skinny jeans, but it's the dramatic makeup around her eyes that first captures his attention. It's tastefully done, carefully avoiding the realms of 'tacky' and 'overdone', and Dorea Black would approve.

"Thanks," Santana acknowledges, smiling, "You look good, too. Selfie?"

"Sure," Harry acquiesces. Nonchalantly, he slings an arm over her shoulders and they huddle in close for the photo. She smells like oranges.

With his longer reach, Harry takes the picture, and it turns out fairly well. Photography isn't his favourite medium, but he's learned a bit about angles and lighting and whatnot, and as they study the image on Santana's digital camera, they're both pleased with the result.

"This is going on Facebook," Santana says decisively. She hasn't moved from his side, and absently, Harry twirls a lock of her hair around his fingers.

"Sure," Harry acquiesces, drops his arm from Santana's shoulders, and shoves his hands in his pockets, "Should we join everyone else, or…?"

Santana leads the way to the living room, and Harry's a little surprised to find only a dozen others present. It's actually rather chilled out, far from the cheerleader hosted parties he's attended in the passed six months, but Harry can't say he's disappointed.

"You're the last one," Santana informs him, "Can I get you a drink?"

"Sure," Harry replies, "Whatever beer you've got is fine."

As Santana gestures for him to make himself comfortable, she retreats to the kitchen, and Harry settles on the floor by Brittany's feet. She's in an animated conversation with another cheerleader, but she acknowledges his presence by playing with his hair, and Harry is content to sit and people watch until Santana returns with a couple of drinks and a bottle of tequila under her arm, a bag of disposable shot glasses under the other, and a bowl of sliced lemons in hand.

Brittany cheers at the sight of Santana. "Body shots!"

Santana sets down her supplies on the coffee table, and offers Harry his drink. They share rueful grins, and Harry settles in for what is sure to be a long, entertaining night.

He isn't disappointed.

-!- -#-

 **Author's Note:** Ugh, this one was hard to write. I'm hoping to have Chapter 40 up by the end of the year, but considering how long this one took, I make no promises.

Also, I'm writing so many #relationshipgoals couples, and they're not even the main pairings. They're not obvious yet, but they will be.

Before I go, happy holidays, everyone. I have no idea what you celebrate - if you celebrate anything at all - but whatever the case may be, I hope you have the pleasure of good food, good drinks, and good company. Thank you for all of your support and encouragement. Until next time, -t.


	40. Part 1: Chapter 40: The Middle

**Welcome to the Jungle**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter, or Glee. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Part One: Fifteen**

 **Chapter Forty: The Middle**

In the week that follows Valentine's Day, rumours of Cho and Cedric's breakup spread throughout McKinley High like wildfire, but the subjects in question are unruffled. They're both subdued, less inclined towards smiling, or laughing, or socialising, really, but that's not particularly new for either of them.

Not since Christmas, anyway.

In any case, neither of them are pining, and mostly, they just seem _relieved_.

"We were fucking miserable," Cedric admits, shrugging, "Sometimes we'd get into these fights, say the most god-awful things, and every time I look at her, I just think of… Anyway, it was just time, you know? We're different now, after what happened, and I don't know, I guess we grew apart. I was tired of forcing 'us' to work, and I guess she was too, so we finished up our dinner, I drove her home, and that was that."

Cedric peels at the label on his water bottle, a little solemn, a little awkward, and Harry silently wonders why any of them bother with relationships at all. Surely, they're not worth this sort of misery?

"I'm sorry it didn't work out, Ced."

Cedric shrugs again. His smile is bleak. "It happens."

"Doesn't make it suck any less," Harry answers.

Cedric nods his agreement, but Coach Hooch arrives before their conversation can continue further. She's in a shit mood, absent of her usual thermos of coffee and evidently disgruntled by the fact, and she has no qualms about expressing her displeasure. Subsequently, none of them have any energy left for conversation, though Puck makes a valiant effort. It doesn't last.

Mercifully, training doesn't last forever - though part way through, it certainly feels like it - and they're dismissed with enough time to freshen up before class.

"Who pissed in her cheerios this morning?" Puck grouses. He roughly undoes the laces on his trainers as he does so, and then carelessly, shamelessly starts to tug off his clothes.

"Don't know, don't care, I just want to die," Kevin groans theatrically, slumped against one of the lockers. He's already showered and dressed in his boxers and jeans, but he makes no effort to pull on a shirt, and Harry laughs despite himself. He's exhausted and aching, run ragged as much as the rest of them, but Kevin's dramatics are always comical. It's taken a bit of time to adjust to him, but Entwistle fits into the fold of their team easily, and again, Harry is bewildered by the fact he wasn't Hooch's first choice to begin with.

"Suck it up, Entwistle, we're only halfway through the season," Graham Montague drops onto one of the bench seats to sort out his shoes, "There's a long ass way to go."

"Joy," Matt deadpans. The others offer similar sentiments, and Montague only laughs, unsympathetic.

As a senior, Montague is in his last season of high school basketball, and despite the scholarship opportunities therein, he has no intention of pursuing it throughout college. Therefore, when Graham isn't floating through games and training in a nostalgic haze, he's motivated by the knowledge that in six weeks, he'll have no more of Coach Hooch's training sessions to endure.

Harry imagines it's a pleasant thought.

"Do you think you'll miss it?" Mike queries.

"High school?" Graham clarifies, and then huffs a laugh, "Not a chance. I can't wait to get the hell out of this shithole."

"Here, here," Adrian Pucey contributes. He's another member of the varsity team, another senior, and also Montague's best friend.,

Harry's not sure of whether or not Montague is referring to high school in general terms, William McKinley High in particular, or Lima as a whole. Likely, it's a combination of all of the above, but he doesn't ask Montague or Pucey to clarify, and no one else does, either.

Instead, conversation turns towards Puck, and the question of why half the football team are under the impression that Puck spends his Maths classes snoozing in the nurse's office.

He doesn't. Harry would know - he sits next to the asshole.

"They think I take Algebra," Puck shrugs, unruffled, "When I didn't correct them, they assumed."

"And you didn't correct them about that, either?" Mike concludes.

Puck shrugs, unabashed. "I have a rep to maintain."

Matt, Mike, Harry, Roger, Kevin, and Gabriel roll their eyes, collectively long-suffering. They've all heard about the dude's infamous, notorious, exulted rep by now, and moreover, Puck's willingness to protect it - by any means necessary.

"That's fucked up, dude," Matt says decisively, and considering Puck is more or less pretending to be someone he's not, Harry couldn't agree more.

-!- -#-

Interestingly enough, Cho is of a similar mindset to Cedric, though her explanation is a great deal lengthier, over the phone later that same evening, and Harry regrets asking about 30 seconds into her tangent. He's glad she's okay, glad she's found the fortitude to move passed these hurdles in her life, but holy hell, when Harry had offered to be a listening ear, he hadn't actually expected either of them to take him up on it.

All the same, Cho's actually become a friend since Seamus' ill-fated back to school party, and therefore, Harry listens as Cho talks it out. He proceeds through that night's kitchen clean-up as she does so, throws on a load of his laundry when he's done, and makes the effort to contribute to the conversation when Cho seeks out his opinion.

Harry wonders, sardonically, when he became her emotional sounding board, but it's not a question he'll ever vocalise, or seek out an answer to besides. It doesn't matter, in any case, because he's just glad that he's able to help her out, and there are worse ways he could spend his evening.

"Anyway, I've got to go," Cho wraps up their phone call, "I've got, like, an hour of piano practice to do before I can chill out. Thanks for listening, Harry."

"No problem, Cho," Harry answers, "You can call to talk, anytime."

They hang up on either end of the phone line, and Harry begrudgingly settles in to complete what homework he hasn't already done. It includes research for the Euro Challenge, which actually sucks him into a wormhole of information on the European Union, and how the differing cultures therein have impacted the EU since it's inception in the 90's.

Eventually though, it grows late, and Harry reluctantly calls it a night. It's been a long day, and despite himself, he's tired.

With that in mind, he proceeds through his nighttime routine in a haze, and collapses into bed with a grateful sigh. He doesn't remember falling asleep.

-!- -#-

 **Author's Note:** Appreciate high school while you can, Montague. You'll miss it when it's gone.

Hey, readers. Hope you've had a lovely holiday thus far. Apologies for the delay. Been hella busy, seeing loved ones and all that. Tonight's New Year's, and I'm determined not to end it sober.

Hope you enjoy this update (my last for 2017), because there's no telling when I'll next post. The last couple of chapters have been a bit difficult to churn out, so…

Anyway, hope you guys have a great NYE. See you on the other side. Much love, -t.


	41. Part 1: Chapter 41: On Top of the World

**Welcome to the Jungle**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter or Glee. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Part One: Fifteen**

 **Chapter Forty-One: On Top of the World**

February draws to a close without further incident, and the student body of William McKinley High turns it's collective attention towards their Spring Break, rapidly approaching. There are still three weeks of the winter term remaining, mid-term exams, class projects due in, and reports to present. There are a few more basketball games to play, a Spring dance to worry about, and it's such that without truly realising it until after the fact, time flies.

"Undefeated," Matt marvels, squashed into the diner seat beside Harry. They're at a team dinner,, and they're all still a little high off their last - and most recent - victory.

Their team has been named State Champions for the Under 16 Men's Division, have, in fact, beaten the current record as an all freshman team, and Harry, like the rest of his teammates, is over the moon.

Hell, he can't imagine what could possibly top this feeling.

"Hell yeah!" Puck enthusiastically concurs, and throws his arms up in victory. A raucous round of cheering follows, handshakes and back slaps and toasts as well, and Harry can't wipe the smile off his face. He doesn't even try.

Amidst the ruckus, Coach Hooch detaches herself from the cluster of parents near the front doors, fiddles with the settings on one of those little hand-held microphone/speaker sets of her's, and draws the teams' attention with a sharp, shrill whistle that silences them instantly.

It ought to be acknowledged, really, that over the season, they'd each acquired a healthy respect (re: fear) for Coach Hooch, and the authority the woman wields with a dignified, terrifying sort of efficiency. She proceeds with the obligatory end of season speech, congratulating them each for a job well done and what have you, but before long, Harry - as Captain - is being ushered forward to give a speech of his own, and he's grateful he'd been forewarned by Montague.

It's not the formal banquet, wherein awards and what have you will be presented, where Graham will be the unfortunate sod expected to present a speech, but somehow, Harry's still a nervous wreck.

"Before I say anything else, I want to thank everyone who helped us to this point. Coach Hooch and Marcus, without your tireless commitment to the basketball team, without your support, encouragement, and belief in us, we - a completely new team, more or less inexperienced in the ways of competitive basketball - wouldn't have achieved what we have, and I'm fairly certain there isn't enough gratitude in the world for you both.

"To our parents, grandparents, guardians, also, thank you; for all the morning drop-offs and afternoon pick-ups, for the early breakfasts and late dinners, for your consistent, wholehearted support at every game. We couldn't have done it without you.

"To my teammates, Puck, Mike and Matt, Roger, Gabe, and Kevin, I've had so much fun with you guys this season. It's been tough, it's been exhausting, it's been a surprise at every turn, but training and playing alongside you guys has been a tremendous honour, and an extremely rewarding experience."

Harry took a moment to take in his attentive audience, took another moment to settle his jangling nerves, and then continued his speech.

"As captain of this team, I've learned so much - about teamwork, about leadership, about myself - and I will continue to learn in the years to come. From this season though, and from this team in particular, the most important thing I will take with me are the memories we've made. Puck and Kevin's concerts, every bus ride, wherein they displayed their uncanny knowledge of all the lyrics to every pop song known to man, particularly of the 'boy band' variety. Gabriel, and his tendency to quote Yoda before every Game. Subtly referencing rap battles in conversations with Coach Hooch and Marcus, actually attempting to _recreate_ those rap battles, and failing spectacularly. There are so many moments I can mention here, and a whole lot of stories to tell, but I guess we'd all like to get home at some point tonight. In saying that, I'll finish up: Guys, again, it's been so much fun, and I can't wait to do it all again with you next year."

The conclusion of Harry's speech is met with applause and smiles, and Harry returns to his seat with a grateful sigh. There, he is met with laughter, claps on the back and lighthearted teasing for Harry's sentiment, but mostly, the guys seem pleased with everything he'd said, and Harry is relieved by the fact.

"That was a good speech," Mike commends from over the back of Harry's seat. He is seated directly behind Harry, in the next booth over, and Roger entertains himself by blowing straw wrappers at his face.

"It was," Matt agrees.

"Thanks," Harry acknowledges, his face red, "I'm glad it wasn't awful."

Although Harry's high spirits could probably carry him through to the next morning, his parents eventually drag him home to sleep off all of the excitement. Kate's home from another date with Colin, seated at the piano while their grandmother, Dorea, listens to her play, her own eyes closed, a content smile on her face.

"How'd you go?" Kate asks. She doesn't care much for sports, more interested in Dance and Theatre, but she's always been supportive of Harry's interests, just as Harry has always supported her own.

"State Champions," Harry answers, pleased beyond words. Over their heads, they high five with both hands. As they do, Kate cheers and pulls him into a celebratory hug.

"Congratulations!"

"Thanks." He combs a hand through his hair, a sheepish grin on his face, and yawns despite himself. "I think I'm going to call it a night."

Behind him, James claps Harry on the shoulder. His father looks tired and drawn, and not just due to the long day. In fact, he's looked rather drained for some weeks now, but Harry hasn't yet built up the courage to ask him what's wrong. In truth, though, Harry's not sure he wants to find out.

"Sleep well, Harry. You earned it."

Harry makes his way downstairs and proceeds through his usual evening routine, and he's asleep before his head hits the pillow.

-!- -#-

After work the following day, Harry, Kate, Ron, and Hermione sit down to enjoy some lunch before they have to head their separate ways, and it's a good time. Hermione takes the opportunity to quiz him about the Euro Challenge and, in particular, the presentation Harrys headed to Columbus to give over Spring Break. Ron speaks of his own plans, headed to Cincinnati with Fred, George, and Ginny in order to visit their older brother, Percy, and Kate laments the fact that she's got no plans at all.

"Are you nervous?" Hermione asks.

"Pretty nervous," Harry admits, "Everything has been online so far. This is the first one we'll be presenting in person, so…"

"What country did you choose?"

"France," Harry answers, "You'd think it'd be easier, given Puck's from there, and I spend part of every summer in Provence, but no, it's been a pain in the ass. I sort of hope we don't make it to the next round, but at the same time, I'll be gutted if we don't. We worked our asses off to finish it."

"I'm sure it'll be great," Hermione gives him an encouraging smile, "I kind of wish I joined, but I've already got so much on my plate…"

Hermione, between her work and her studies, is a contributing member of the school newspaper, the scholastic decathlon team, and also the yearbook committee. Between all of these extra-curricular activities, she somehow juggles 18 hours at the Steam House each week, an excellent grade point average, and a fairly busy social life. Her time management skills are amazing, essentially, and Harry can't fathom how she (and Mike, for that matter) does it.

Harry shrugs, and reasons, "There's always next year."

"Assuming WMHS decides to continue the program," Hermione counters.

"Fingers crossed. I complain about it but I don't know, I guess I don't regret doing it. I've learned a lot."

"So you'd recommend it?"

"If your up for the challenge, yeah." He pauses, and adds with a self-deprecating roll of his eyes, "No pun intended."

Before long, conversation turns to their plans for that evening. Kate's got a sleepover with a few of her friends, and Harry's attending the spring dance with Katie Bell. It's a date that's entirely platonic, which makes the prospect significantly less terrifying. Despite that fact, however, Harry's not exactly enthused about the thought of attending a school dance. He's even less enthused about the possibility of missing out, though, and thus, he only complains a little bit.

. Unsurprisingly, Ron and Hermione are going with Lavender and Mike, respectively. The way they talk, though, their significant others are looking forward to it a whole lot more than Ron and Hermione themselves.

"I didn't peg Chang for the school dance type," Ron admits, dubious.

Hermione shrugs, nonchalant. "He likes to dance."

"That… does not compute," Ron mumbles, perturbed. The rest of them laugh at the expression on his face, but Mike - and his interest in Dance - is not something they dwell on. Rather, their lunch continues, and as it is wont to do, their conversation moves on to other things.

It's nice, just to hang out and catch up, but eventually, Harry and Kate excuse themselves to make their bus home - the only one for another hour - with their thoughts on their individual plans ahead. It's an uneventful trip, made entertaining as they share headphones and dramatically lip-sync to Linkin Park. Eventually, however, they reach their destination, and Kate takes off to prepare for her night.

Harry, meanwhile, settles in for a couple of hours of video games, and works hard not to dwell on the dance ahead. He's only moderately successful.

 **Author's Note:** Apologies for the long wait, everyone. Life, and all that. Hope 2018 has been treating you well, thus far. Until next time, -t.


	42. Part 1: Chapter 42: Dancing in the Dark

**Welcome to the Jungle**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter, or Glee. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Part One: Fifteen**

 **Chapter Forty-Two: Dancing in the Dark**

Katie picks him up as the sun sets over Lima. She's dressed up for the occasion, her makeup light and tasteful, and clad prettily in a pale pink sundress that shows off her toned, tanned calves. It's a modest cut, barely hinting at her cleavage and the hems floating around her knees, but it clings to her curves like a second skin, and Harry probably appreciates it more than he should. He and Katie are only friends, after all, and Harry doesn't dare to imagine that will ever change.

"You look amazing," he tells her anyway,, and smirks as Katie blushes in response. The look is quite becoming on her, actually, and Harry internally vows to make it happen as often as he possibly can.

"Thanks," Katie answers, "You look pretty awesome yourself."

Harry shrugs, a sheepish smile on his face. "I try."

Katie rolls her eyes, but there's a humoured smile on her face. "You ready to go?"

"Yup."

With everyone already headed out for their respective plans, Harry locks the door behind him, and approaches Katie's car with his hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans. She's left her car running, the sound of Sum 41's 'In Too Deep' filtering from her speakers, and Harry offers her a wry smile.

In response, Katie shrugs, entirely unabashed.

Harry makes himself comfortable in Katie's passenger seat, and they chat idly about their respective weekends as the older girl makes the drive to WMHS. She's a check-out chick at Wal-Mart, and has thus spent most of her day on her feet, but otherwise, her weekend has been more or less uneventful.

"I heard you guys won last night," she prods.

"We did." Harry's smile is irrepressible.

"Congratulations," Katie beams, "That's so awesome!"

"Yeah," Harry agrees, "it's pretty gratifying."

They chat idly about their classes, about their classmates and their thoughts on the next athletic season - Baseball for Harry, Track and Field for Katie - until they reach the school. She parks in the student lot, amidst a variety of other cars, and offers him a smile that's only moderately enthusiastic.

"You ready?"

"As I'll ever be," Harry replies wryly.

-!- -#-

Unsurprisingly, the gymnasium has been decorated for the occasion, an array of bright, vibrant colours, with no semblance of order to them whatsoever. The music is deafening, the conversations a loud, incomprehensible blur to his senses, and Harry wonders if it's too late to leave.

Katie tucks herself closer against his side, winds her arm around his torso, and clutches absently at the material beneath her fingers.

"Where to, blondie?"

"Let's go get some drinks," Katie answers. It's a strain to hear her, but by some miracle, he manages. "And then, I don't know, should we dance?"

Harry glances skeptically at the basketball court turned dance floor, where a few brave couples are (incongruously) slow dancing to Lady Gaga. Katie Bell is stunning, admittedly, but Harry isn't particularly thrilled by the prospect of joining them. Nevertheless… "If you want."

The refreshments table is on the side of the hall, zealously guarded by Coach Hooch and Coach Sylvester. Both women watch their approach with gimlet stares, and under their scrutiny, the process of pouring drinks for himself and Katie is an excruciating one.

"Hope you don't mind punch," Harry offers her a plastic cup, "Maybe we should raid the vending machines later?"

"I like the way you think, champion," Katie answers. They pretend to clink glasses, and Harry's still chuckling about it when he leads her towards a cluster of athletes near the back of the gym. Among them, Matt and Mike, Seamus, Dean, Frankie and Ron. Also present are Cho, Cho's unpleasant best friend, Marietta Edgecomb, and of course, everyone's respective dates.

"Hey," he greets them all. Cho and Katie proceed with the usual mutual admiration society nonsense that usually occurs between quasi friends, and most of the other girls present join in.

"What's up, dude?" Matt acknowledges. They bump fists, and Matt nods his head towards the dance floor. "You going to bust a move?"

At present, Finn and Quinn are swaying in the middle of the dance floor, and it looks kind of dangerous. Finn's not exactly the most coordinated _off_ the dance floor, and adding a rhythm to the equation looks to be rather hazardous towards everyone else's health.

Sardonically, he wonders if Quinn's toes will ever recover.

"Maybe later," he answers, "I'd like to make it out of here in one piece."

Matt huffs a laugh. "I hear you, man. It's like watching a baby giraffe on ice skates."

Harry squints at his friend from the corner of his eye, bemused by the description, but also unable to disagree with it. "Right. Exactly that."

They turn away from the dance floor, and slip into conversation with some of the other guys about the current NBA season. A few of them drift back and forth from the dance floor with their respective dates, but Katie appears content in conversation with a few of her girlfriends, and Harry's disinclined towards dragging her away to cut a rug under the scrutiny of most of their classmates. Moreover, Quinn and Finn are still in the middle of the floor, surrounded by a pseudo mosh-pit made up of cheerleaders and football players, and although Harry would be welcome by most of them, Harry would rather not give anyone the impression he has any respect for Quinn and Finn and in particular, their supposed position on the school's social hierarchy.

Eventually, however, Katie's conversation with her friends draws to a close, and she once again settles herself by his side. As she does so, Matt and Dean make a tactical retreat from the hall, intent on avoiding the colourful figure that is one of their classmates, Mercedes Jones, whom, in turn, is intent on snagging a dance with one of her fellow African American Society members.

It goes without saying, of course, that neither of them are particularly inclined towards humouring her. As such, Harry covers their retreat, and then turns his attention to Katie once they're both out of sight..

"Hey, you," he greets her, "Having fun?"

"Yeah, I'm having a good time," Katie answers. She draws in close to be heard over the music, and her hair smells like jasmine, "Did you want to dance?"

"Sure," Harry acquiesces, and takes her hand. They detour to the refreshments table to bin their disposable cups, but it's only a few moments later that they're situated on the improvised dance floor.

Katie settles her arms on his shoulders, her fingers twined together at the back of his neck, and Harry carefully wraps his hands around his friend's small waist.

He has every intention of maintaining a respectable distance between them, but he's surprised, then, when Katie shuffles in close, leans against him, and starts to sway.

Harry follows her rhythm on auto-pilot, but his heart is racing inside his chest, and he's absurdly conscious of the fact that she can probably hear it. Moreover, the heat of Katie's body is like a brand against his skin, through their clothes, and he's certain he can make out her every curve against him.

"Is this okay?" she asks.

harry swallows hard, nods over her head, and answers hoarsely, "Yeah."

He has no idea what they're doing, has no idea what he _wants_ them to be doing that night, or in the days, weeks, and months to come, but as Lady Gaga transitions to Justin Timberlake, and as he and Katie continue to sway to a beat all their own, he can't bring himself to care. It will matter - later - but for now, Harry opts to enjoy the moment for as long as it lasts, and as for all the rest of it?

Well, tomorrow's always another day.

 **Author's Note:** Allo, friends. Apologies for the wait. I've been busy, and more recently, writer's block's a drag. Also, job hunting blows.

On another note, I recently watched the Greatest Showman, and it was fantastic. I remember watching Zac Efron in the original HSM (way back in 2006, when I was 11), and his vocals have improved immensely since then. I can't say much for the rest of him, since I've lost my sight since way back when, but I have it on good authority that the rest of him has improved with age, as well.

That aside, Hugh Jackman's always phenomenal, and the soundtrack was wonderful. In fact, it's pretty much all I've been listening to since Saturday. The plot and the characterisations have been romanticised, of course, but in all, I'd definitely recommend the movie (if you haven't seen it already).

Anyway, hope you guys have enjoyed this chapter. What's going on with Katie and Harry, right? You know, I'm not really sure, myself. Teens are impulsive though, aren't they? Guess we'll find out soon enough. Until next time, guys and gals. -t.


	43. Part 1: Chapter 43: Good Time

**Welcome to the Jungle**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter, or Glee. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Part One: Fifteen**

 **Chapter Forty-Three: Good Time**

Predictably, there's an after-party (there are a few, actually), and the one he attends has a guest list that's restricted, and Harry's surprised to be one of the few lucky enough to receive an invitation. It's at Terrence Higgs' place, a chilled out affair with good drinks, good music, and good company, and Harry doesn't regret attending in the slightest.

Katie doesn't either, it seems, clustered together with the few other sophomore girls there, cackling as one of them exaggeratedly reenacts an incident Harry can't make out from his distance. She's sober, the only one to be in a group of inebriated friends, and Harry can't tell if she's laughing at the story, or at her friends themselves.

He's settled comfortably on a couch in the living room, accompanied by Frankie, Seamus, Dean, and Ron. They'd been visited, sporadically, by others, but mostly, the after-party has consisted of them hanging out, drinking beer, and shooting the shit.

It seems to be the usual state of things with these guys, actually, and Harry can't say he minds it much.

"So, Lauren Zizes," Seamus says conversationally, his focus on Frankie. Ron and Lavender detach themselves from each other to pay attention to the conversation, and Harry sits back to enjoy the entertainment.

"Lauren Zizes," Frankie confirms. The tips of his ears are red, "She's a good friend."

"What do you see in her?" Lavender asks. It's not intended to sound malicious, but it does anyway, and even as the rest of them offer her unimpressed frowns, Ron cringes.

It goes without saying, of course, that none of them respond to Lavender's enquiry.

"One that can probably kick your ass," Dean contributes.

Lauren Zizes is one of the few girls on the WMHS Wrestling Team. She's not exactly pretty (conventionally speaking), and she's built sturdier than most of the females Harry knows, but she's entirely terrifying, with the skills and confidence to back it up, and a chip on her shoulder the size of Canada. It means she's not the most approachable of their classmates, but that hasn't seemed to deter Frankie.

"Undoubtedly," Frankie agrees nonchalantly. "I asked her out because I think she's really cool, and I don't know, I guess we'll see where it goes."

"You're a brave bastard," Seamus marvels.

Frankie rolls his eyes. "She's not that scary."

"We'll take your word for it," Ron answers. He doesn't sound convinced.

Terence Higgs drops into an available seat next to Dean, and greets them all with hand shakes and fist bumps. He's the third starting striker on the soccer team, a quiet, skilled sophomore who keeps out of the usual high school politics most athletes are plagued by, and Harry's only encountered him on a few occasions. Higgs is good people though, as far as Harry can tell anyway, and his gathering is something to appreciate.

"Thanks for the invite, Higgs," Harry acknowledges.

"No problem, dude," Higgs answers, "Are you enjoying yourself?"

"Yeah, I am," Harry confirms, smiling, "It's a good crowd."

"Damn right it is," Seamus concurs, to a round of uproarious agreement.

In the din, Katie arrives at his side, takes stock of the lack of available seating, and settles herself in Harry's lap. He shifts to accommodate her, wraps his arms around her middle to hold her steady, and meets Ron's gaze from over Katie's shoulder. Harry's bewildered, Ron is amused and encouraging, and Katie looks like there's no where else she'd rather be.

"Comfortable?" He greets her wryly.

"Absolutely," Katie answers. She slumps against his chest, yawns, and proceeds to fiddle with the watch on his wrist. She doesn't contribute to the conversation around them, but she pays attention, laughs and smiles at all the right parts, and Harry contemplates his drink. It'll probably be his last for the night, if Katie's waning energy is anything to go by, and he's somewhat disappointed by the fact. It's been a good time, and he's a little reluctant to see the evening draw to an end.

Nevertheless, he drains the last of his beer, and taps Katie's side where his arm is curled around her middle. "You ready to go, Blondie?"

Katie doesn't even bother to put up a token protest. "Yeah."

They part with their friends with guarantees to see each other soon, at work or school or wherever else, and leave the party hand in hand.

"I'm sorry we're leaving so soon," Katie says, chagrined, "I'm exhausted."

"It's not a problem, Katie," Harry answers. He opens the driver's seat for her, and waits as she gets comfortable, "It's probably smart, actually. I don't know about you, but I've got work tomorrow, and a ridiculous amount of homework to finish. I mean, Christ."

Katie flashes him a grin, somehow bright in the dim glow of her overhead light, "Glad we're not juniors."

"Or seniors," Harry concurs. He shuts the door behind her, walks around to the other side of the car, and settles himself in the passenger seat, "I mean, I don't look forward to sitting the ACT's and SAT's on top of everything else."

At present, their older friends - Fred, George, Angelina, Alicia, Cedric, and Lee (among others) - look snowed in, preparing for the ACT's, all the while staying on top of their homework and extra-curricular commitments, and what have you. Viktor and Fleur, who are rapt up in more of the same with their SAT's, and swamped with the extra pressure of preparing for their respective futures besides, don't look any better.

Harry can't say he envies them the stress.

"Ugh, don't remind me," Katie grimaces. She ignites the engine, pulls away from the curb, and makes her way to Harry's place, "I'm dreading it."

He flashes her a smile in the dark. In the brightness of a passing street light, Katie catches it from the corner of her eyes, and returns it with one of her own. "You and me both."

In the companionable silence that follows, Laura Marling filters from Katie's speakers. It's a mellow, restful way to end what has been an altogether pleasant evening,. Therefore, as Katie pulls up by the curb in front of his house, Harry finds himself reluctant to leave the confines of her car.

"I had a nice time tonight," Katie says, breaking the silence between them. Laura Marling sings on.

"I'm glad," Harry answers. He means it. "I did, too. Thanks for inviting me."

Katie laughs. "Thanks for accepting."

As Katie leans forward - to hug him, or kiss him on the cheek, Harry doesn't know - he turns his head to kiss her cheek instead, and is startled when his lips meet hers. His eyes are wide open - hers are too - and without really intending to, they both start laughing.

"Um, okay," Katie mumbles, chuckling still, "I don't know, should we try that again?"

Harry shrugs. He's not about to refuse. "Why not?"

They do, and it's… something else.

Katie pulls away first, shaking her head. "Yeah, no. Sorry for the mixed signals, Harry, that's…"

"That's a bit weird," Harry concurs.

"Friends?" Katie asks, earnest and hopeful.

Harry nods, pleased, and concurs, "Friends."


	44. Part 1: Chapter 44: We Won't Run

**Welcome to the Jungle**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter, or Glee. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Part One: Fifteen**

 **Chapter Forty-Four: We Won't Run**

It's yet another family night, and they're gathered around the dining table, embroiled in a game of Monopoly. It's a competitive, albeit good-natured affair that Harry is losing at spectacularly. Even as he accepts the teasing with an affable smile though, he privately hopes business acumen is a learned skill, because if it's hereditary, Harrys going to go down in the annals of his family's history as the one to bankrupt Peverell Industries, in which case, he might just die of shame. He'd certainly never again be able to look his father in the eye.

Fortunately, responsibility of Peverell Industries is a long way from Harry's grasp, and hopefully, it's not something he'll have to worry about for many years to come.

"Seriously, you suck at this," Kate informs him.

"Like I don't already know that," harry rolls his eyes, pulls a face, and yawns into his hand.

"In all fairness, he _was_ the last to roll," Lily opines, "He's at a bit of a disadvantage in that regard."

"that makes me feel better," Harry deadpans. "I mean, screw the property market."

"Crude," Dorea says mildly, "But apt. It's so very changeable."

"You just need to change with the market, Mum," James contributes.

Kate and Harry share a long-suffering glance as around them, the adults descend into discussion regarding the property market, and the value of investments therein.

Resigned, Harry gets up to clean the kitchen, and Kate follows to feed the pets. As they do so, the adults pay them no heed, rapt up in the debate that's started up between Charles and James. It drifts between languages, Welsh and French and English, and thus, despite his fluency in each of them, there are technical terms Harry hasn't even heard of. The topic, therefore, goes way over his head, and Harry doesn't even _try_ to understand.

"Do you think they'd notice if we ditched them?" Kate asks, overly optimistic.

"Um, yes? Have you met our father?"

"Who wants to listen to _that_ though?" Kate pouts, gesturing vaguely towards the dining room, "I don't even understand half of what they're saying."

"Why do you think I'm voluntarily cleaning the kitchen?"

Harry starts to stack dishes in the empty dishwasher, and without prompting, Kate begins to empty the drying rack beside the sink. They proceed in an amicable silence, broken only as Kate hums to herself, and it's easy, mindless work that Harry completes on autopilot. He washes the pots and pans his mother had used that night, wipes down the stove and countertops, and packs away the cooling leftovers in the refrigerator. Kate lets Frodo and Sam back in through the balcony door, Loki takes off to do whatever cats do at night, and eventually, neither of them have any more reason to linger. As such, they (reluctantly) return to the dining room, and settle into the seats they'd vacated earlier.

"I'm glad you two are back," Charles greets them, "Dorea and I have something of an announcement to make."

Across the table from his father, Harry's own dad, James, looks an odd blend of dubious, curious, and concerned. Harry can't tell if he already knows what's going on, but Harry doesn't particularly appreciate the way both of his grandparents avoid he and Kate's respective gazes, and he's pretty sure he won't like what they have to say.

"Is everything okay?" Kate asks, fretful. They're all aware of the fact Charles and Dorea aren't getting any younger, but Kate's the one who worries about them most, and Harry hopes - for all of their sakes - that neither of them are going to announce a diagnosis of cancer, or dementia, or something like it.

"Dorea and I have decided to return to Wales," Charles succinctly informs them.

In response, the rest of them are stunned speechless.

"In particular, we intend to reside in Cardigan for as long as the threat to our wellbeing remains. As is, we've responsibilities back home that we can no longer delegate, and as much as we enjoy the time spent with you all, quite frankly, both of us would simply rather return home."

"Have you lost your minds?" Perhaps predictably,the question comes from James, who looks simultaneously outraged, incredulous, and terrified, "There are people in Britain actively trying to _kill_ you, and you want to go back there?"

"We've spent six months here, James," Charles' tone is calm and level, but James doesn't appreciate it in the slightest, "If they were going to find the perpetrator, then they would have by now. As is, they have not, and Dorea and I have no intention of putting our lives on hold indefinitely. We've still plenty to do, and a few death threats are not going to stop us."

"Go to bed," Lily instructs Harry and Kate. Her gaze is on her husband though, whose face is turning an alarming shade of red. He looks fit to bursting. "Now."

Kate, who has already started crying despite the fact they haven't actually left yet, and Harry, who still has no idea what to say, do not protest. They've seen their father in a temper enough to know they don't want to see it again, and so they disperse before they have to, and retreat to their respective bedrooms just as the yelling starts on the floor between them.

Harry closes all of the doors as he goes, and drowns out the rest of the noise with one of his Easy Listening playlists, still a little too dazed to truly comprehend all of the consequences of his grandparents' decision. Instead, he's rapt up in the thought of their departure, and the epiphany that, actually, he really doesn't want them to go.

Unable to distract himself with the homework he'd completed during what had turned out to be an exceedingly productive afternoon, Harry busies himself with his PSP instead, and works hard not to think about what's going on upstairs.

He mostly fails.

-!- -#-

After a restless night, the house is eerily silent. None of them speak much as they prepare for their respective days, and even the trip to school is quiet. Harry doesn't know what to say, Kate doesn't either, and their dad's still stewing in the previous night's revelations. As such, Harry's somewhat relieved to get out of the car, and even more relieved to find Hermione and Mike in the WMHS library.

Normally, he'd have no interest in being a third wheel to his friends' study dates, but he always gets a lot of work done with them, and quite frankly, Harry could use the distraction.

"Hey you," Hermione greets him cheerfully, "How goes it?"

Harry drops into a seat beside Mike, grimacing. "Could be better."

"What's wrong?" Mike prods.

"Just, you know, shit at home."

Hermione and Mike grimace their sympathy, but they don't pry. Instead, they turn back to their respective projects as Harry, meanwhile, produces his laptop from his bag. He's determined to churn out the last of his History report (due that Friday) before he has to make his way to homeroom, and if he has time to type out his reference list, too, then Harry won't complain.

"What happened with you and Katie?" Hermione queries. With half an hour before they have to disperse for homeroom, They've fallen into a brief, impromptu study break, and Hermione looks as though she's been waiting to ask all morning.

"Nothing, really," Harry admits, nonchalant, "We kind of just decided we were better off as friends. I don't know, maybe it's just bad timing or something, but it was just weird, you know? NO chemistry, or whatever."

"But you two are good?" Mike clarifies.

"We're good," Harry confirms.

"And did you want to talk about what's going on at home?" Hermione asks.

Harry's face scrunches up at the thought. "Not really. Still a bit too fresh, you know?"

After a night to absorb his grandparents' announcement, Harry's upset. He's sad, angry, and terrified for their wellbeing, but he's also a little hurt, because don't they want to spend time with their family?

Admittedly, six months is a long time, but when will they ever get the chance to do it again? Neither of them have any intentions of retiring any time soon, and they're getting quite old, besides. Moreover, Harry can't imagine his parents are enthused by the prospect of sending their children to the UK while dangerous - in fact treasonous - criminals are on the loose. That doesn't take into consideration whoever is threatening Charles and Dorea, either, but Harry doesn't like to think about that because it's not something he can fix and therefore, it only makes him angry.

"All right," Mike doesn't press the issue, "If you change your mind…"

Hermione nods her agreement.

"Thanks. I appreciate it."

They return to their respective tasks without much more conversation, and it's a triumphant Harry who leaves the library half an hour later. Barring a final edit, he's completed his History report, and given everything else he has to hand in within the next two weeks, he looks forward to the moment wherein he no longer has to worry about it.

"You missed an awesome party on Saturday," Puck greets him at his locker, and Harry idly wonders what he's doing there. Normally, Puck's busy in the morning, tossing people in dumpsters, or locking them in portaloos, or pouring slushies on people. "Where were you?"

"Higgs'," Harry answers, yawns, and absently deposits his English, Maths, and Science books in his backpack, "Called it an early night, actually. Got home at, like, half eleven? Something like that."

"Lame."

Harry shrugs, unruffled. "I had work in the morning. Besides, all the parties are just the same old shit, different day, you know?"

"Uh, no?" Puck looks nonplused.

"Whatever. What did you do yesterday?"

Puck shrugs, nonchalant. "Hung out at home. Played some COD. Finished my speech for the Euro Challenge."

"You send it to Mr Sinclair yet?" Harry asks. He'd finished his yesterday, as well, but it's not due in until Tuesday afternoon, and Harry wants to do another edit before he submits it for Mr Sinclair's assessment. He's their Euro Challenge coach, and he's probably as invested in their efforts as the team members themselves.

That aside, Harry can't remember when he became such a perfectionist. He blames Hermione.

"Last night," Puck confirms, "I don't even want to think about it anymore."

"Pain in the ass, right?"

"Too fucking right," Puck emphatically agrees. As he does so, the first bell blares to life, and they both grimace, chagrined. "Catch you in Maths, dude."

"Yeah," Harry confirms. They bump fists before they part ways, but afterwards, Harry heads to English, and braces himself for another day at McKinley High. It can't end soon enough.

 **Author's Note:** I'd hoped to finish Part 1 before March 1st, but that's obviously not happening. Thanks, writer's block.

In other news, I got my first flame for this story. I don't know, maybe it's just criticism (the non-constructive kind) but eh, either way, I don't know why people bother with them. As far as I'm concerned, they're just another way of boosting my review count. So, yeah, suck on that, haters.

So, hope you enjoyed. Leave a review? I'd love to hear your thoughts. Otherwise, until next time, -t.


	45. Part 1: Chapter 45: Best Thing I Never

**Welcome to the Jungle**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter, or Glee. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Part One: Fifteen**

 **Chapter Forty-Five: Best Thing I Never Had**

"So, Quinn and Finn broke up."

"Did she fuck someone else again?" Harry asks mildly. Yeah, he's still bitter. Sue him.

"No…"

"Okay," Harry answers, nodding, but mostly uninterested, "Why are you telling me?"

"Are you going to, you know, go for her?"

Harry scoffs, simultaneously startled by the enquiry, and dismissive of it. "Give me some credit, you dick."

"Glad to hear it." Matt smiles, pleased. They're in their shared Social Studies class, and their teacher's allowed them a period of independent study to work on what they will. In that time, Harry's edited his History report and Euro Challenge speech, and it's a gratifying feeling. He's still got far more encroaching deadlines to worry about than he cares to really think about, but at least two of them are out of the way now, and no more are going to be added onto his plate.

"I won't be surprised if she tries to, you know, get with you again."

"If she does, I'll tell her to take her attention and shove it up her a-" Harry stops speaking as he makes eye contact with his teacher, who does not look impressed -"- Up where the sun don't shine."

Matt snorts, and then stifles his laughter behind his hand. "Smooth, dude."

Harry attempts to be subtle when he gives Matt the finger, but the sound of his teacher clearing his throat indicates that he's failed in the endeavour.

"One more vulgarity from you, Potter, in word or deed, and it'll be detention this afternoon."

He sinks in his seat, red-faced, as his classmates laugh, or smirk, or offer him sympathetic grimaces, and answers sheepishly, "It won't happen again, Mr Carter."

Mr Carter sounds dubious. "I'm sure it won't."

Mercifully, Harry makes it out of his Social Studies class without earning his first detention of the school year, and trudges towards the Foreign Language department alongside Matt. They don't share the same class - Matt takes Spanish, and Harry takes Japanese - but they're heading in the same direction, and Harry's got a bone to pick with his friend.

"What was the deal with all those questions, anyway?"

Matt shrugs. "I was just making sure I won't have to knock some sense into you, dude. You go back to her, and Quinn will suck the life out of you."

"Not that I'm disagreeing, but why do you say that?"

"Because at this point, she's one of those people who needs to be in control of everything, and you don't actually need her to run your life. That's why she, you know…"

"You just got that from watching her?" Harry asks. He's skeptical.

"San and I have talked about it," Matt shrugs, nonchalant, "She agrees with me."

Harry's not sure what's going on with Matt and Santana, if they're friends, or friends with benefits, or if they're actually in a relationship. Either way, it's a little weird that they've talked about Quinn and Harry, but he tries not to think about it. That way lies madness, and all that..

"Right," Harry acknowledges, lingering outside of his Japanese class, and assures his friend, "I'll definitely keep that in mind, I guess. Either way, I'm not going back to her. I'd never be able to trust her again."

"Sorry, dude," Matt lightly punches him in the arm, sympathetic.

Harry shrugs. "Not your fault, is it? Besides, I'm over it. Over her, anyway."

He's not sure he'll ever get over the betrayal of his trust. Quinn and Finn's actions have certainly eroded something in him, taken away some of his inherent faith in humanity, and Harry's fairly certain that's not something he'll ever be able to get back. In any case, it's not something Harry likes to reflect on often, because the thought that Finn Hudson and Quinn Fabray have that sort of effect on him? It's grating.

Matt nods his acknowledgement, and moves towards his Spanish classroom, "Good to hear it, man. See you at lunch?"

"Yeah," Harry confirms, sighing, "See you."

Carding a hand through his hair, Harry slips into his classroom, drops into a seat in the second row, an produces his books from his bag. As per usual, his teacher is late, and his listless classmates - all six of them - pay him no heed.

As Harry carelessly scrawls lyrics into the margins of his notebook, he comes to the realisation that, actually, he prefers it that way.

-!- -#-

Tanaka coaches the WMHS Baseball team, which essentially means they suck by default.

Truthfully, Harry doesn't mind much. As far as WMHS athletics are concerned, baseball isn't his priority, but it's a decent pastime, his friends are there, and it's a great way to stay in shape while football, basketball, or soccer aren't in season. Moreover, it's another addition to his college applications, and although Harry's a while away from concerning himself with such things, he can't deny that the plight of his older friends and teammates has made him consider his own future, and in particular, how best to prepare for it.

"Is it just me, or are these training sessions stupidly easy?" Mike wonders.

"A walk in the park," Matt concurs, "Guess that's why Hooch's teams are champions, and Tanaka's are… not."

"It means, boys," Luke Bole shoves passed them, headed towards the showers, "If you want to stay in the shape you're in now, you'd better hit the gym."

Bole is a senior, a friend of Montague and Pucey, but meaner, more abrasive, and exceedingly less tolerant of his younger team members. It's not exactly what Harry's accustomed to from his older classmates, but such is life. He's known from a young age that not everyone's going to like him. Not even family, sometimes. That said, the slight still stings a bit.

"Great," Mike grouses, "That's all I need, even less free time."

"Pretty sure it's optional, dude," Puck answers, unfazed. He already visits the school gym on a regular basis, and again, Harry envies Puck his comparatively lighter schedule.

"Not if I don't want to die next basketball season," Mike counters.

"This is true," Puck concedes with a nod. He pulls at the roots of his hair, and then gets up to claim an empty shower, "Don't strain yourself though. Your other classes are exercise enough, aren't they?"

Puck refers to Mike's Dance and Martial Arts classes, of course. The latter have kicked up a notch in intensity, what with the approaching ranking tests, and if Kate's chatter is anything to go by, the dance classes she attends with Mike are equally gruelling, for similar reasons.

Mike hesitates briefly, but concedes with a nod. "I guess so. For now, anyway."

Harry lets Matt and Mike claim the next two available showers, and chats idly with a couple of other players until its his turn to wash up. He does so quickly and efficiently, gets dressed in his Karate gear afterwards, and then meets his friends at the doors to the locker room.

"Ready?"

Harry shrugs. "Sure."

They wander outside. It's not yet sundown, and to no one's surprise, Brittany and Santana loiter outside the school, awaiting their respective lifts home. More interestingly, Quinn's there, and behind a cool, haughty facade, she seems nervous about the fact.

Matt offers Harry a significant glance. "Told you so."

"Whatever," Harry answers.

"What are you going to do?" Mike queries.

Harry shrugs again. "Wing it."

And that's exactly what he does.

-!- -#-

"So… what's happening with Nain and Taid?"

It's Kate who asks, uncertain and hesitant in the back seat of their father's Escalade. They've just finished up their Karate lesson for the week, headed home from the community centre, and the Black Eyed Peas filters from the radio.

In silence, Harry watches his father from his vantage point, wedged in the corner formed by his seat and the passenger side door, and awaits an answer.

Next to him, their father clenches his jaw.

"They have not changed their decision," James answers. His tone is clipped, his accent more pronounced than usual, and Harry can't tell if his father is furious or terrified.

Probably both.

Kate doesn't say a word. Instead, she settles back in her seat, stares out her window, and begins to cry.

Harry, meanwhile, nods wordlessly, glances determinedly out of his own window, and watches as Lima passes them by. As he does so, the silence between them is deafening, and Harry's sure it's the longest drive of his life.

And yet, when they pull up to the driveway of the house that has quickly become home, Harry wonders why they couldn't have just drove on all night.

 **Author's Note:** I posted Welcome to the Jungle on the 28th of Feb/1st of march last year. It's still the 1st of March somewhere in the world…

Thanks for all your support. Here's to (hopefully) another year of this.

Hope you enjoyed. Leave a review? Until next time, -t.


	46. Part 1: Chapter 46: Leaving on a Jet

**Welcome to the Jungle**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter, or Glee. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Part One: Fifteen**

 **Chapter Forty-Six: Leaving on a Jet Plane**

The last week and a half of Harry's winter term passes by in a blur of tests, reports, and project deadlines. The next thing he knows, school's out for Spring Break, and Dorea and Charles are ready to return to Britain. James is heading back with them, not only to ensure his parents make it back in one piece, but also to attend the funeral of an old friend and former colleague, Alistair Moody*.

Meanwhile, Harry's got two days until he and his Euro Challenge team members are due to make their way to Columbus for their State Finals. The plan is to drive down with his mum, Lily, who has promised to allow him some time behind the wheel, but with so much other matters to concern himself with, Harry can't muster up as much enthusiasm for the prospect as he would otherwise.

He's a wreck, actually, nervous about the Euro Challenge, worried about his family, wrung out after his last two weeks of school - and he's more or less ready to sleep away the rest of his year. Kate's in similar shape, for mostly identical reasons, and it is, therefore, no surprise that they've started taking all their stress out on each other in loud, frequently scathing ways.

The thing about having a sister so close in age is that Kate _always_ knows his weaknesses, and in an argument, she has no qualms about using them against him. Admittedly, it goes both ways, but it doesn't make Kate's words hurt any less, and at the end of the day, making her cry just makes him feel like an ass.

In any case, Harry's taken to just avoiding her. Their parents and grandparents probably appreciate the ceasefire, but quite frankly, Harry just doesn't have it in him to maintain a grudge against his sister. He's tried over the years - God, has he tried - but Harry's never been able to forget that Their are always others who deserve his ire a lot more than her, and at the end of the day, he and Kate are family, and that's important. Not everyone thinks so, but Harry does, and it's not something he'll soon forget.

It's such that he's sprawled out on the couch in the entertainment room the evening of term's end, attempting to distract himself with another viewing of ' _A New Hope_ ' and determinedly avoiding thoughts of, well, everything. He's been invited to a few end of term parties, but the last thing Harry wants to do is socialise with people, and he's not the only one. Kate's hammering away at the piano, venting the only way she's ever really been able to, and not even the floors and walls between them can drown out the sound of her emotional outpouring.

"No plans for tonight?"

"Didn't feel like it," Harry shrugs. His dad shifts his feet from the end of the couch, and Harry sits up with a begrudging sigh. The man sits in the space subsequently freed, and briefly contemplates the novel Harry had set on the end table earlier.

As fond of the franchise he is, ' _Star Wars_ ' had not been Harry's first resort for distraction.

"The Grapes of Wrath?"

Harry shrugs. "Why not?"

"What do you think?"

"I couldn't say," Harry answers, "Haven't gotten very far."

His dad sets the book aside, considers the film playing out on the TV in front of them, and observes, "I can't remember the last time you didn't have plans for a Friday night."

Harry scowls. "So, what, you want me to go?"

"That's not what I said, Harry," James sighs wearily. He's always tired these days, and Harry sardonically wonders if he regrets starting the conversation. "I just wanted to know if everything's all right with you."

"I'm fine."

He's really, truly not.

-!- -#-

Charles, Dorea, and James leave on Saturday evening. They all make the trip to Dayton, squeezed together in James' Escalade, and the drive lasts an age.

"You'll take care of yourselves, won't you?" Kate pleads.

"Don't worry about us, Katherine," Dorea replies. "We'll be just fine."

Harry bites his tongue. He understands his grandparents have responsibilities in Britain they can't avoid forever, not the least of which is Peverell Industries, but damn, he wants them to.

Unfortunately, it's not just their professional commitments that motivates their return to Britain. Charles and Dorea are both exceedingly proud, and neither of them can abide by the thought that they've been chased from their homeland by a nameless, faceless danger. They'd tried, and it had chafed at them both for weeks and months on end.

In some respects, Harry can understand it. He's stubborn and proud too, in his own way, but he doesn't want it to be like this.

He doesn't want his grandparents to die for their pride, or duty, or whatever else it is that gives them the strength and courage to return to a place in which someone wants them both dead.

As Harry hugs them both, his grandparents somehow seem even frailer than when they'd arrived.

Once more, he's reminded that they're not getting any younger, and he doesn't want to lose them as he'd lost Grant and Rosemary Evans.,

"Best of luck with your presentation," Charles gives Harry an encouraging smile, "I'm sure you'll do well."

"I hope so."

"Look after yourself," Dorea adds, "We're very proud of you."

Harry's not sure what he's done to be deserving of their pride, but he doesn't admit that. Instead, he hugs them both once again, and slings an arm over Kate's shoulder as their own father approaches them, and as Kate tries hard not to cry.

"Best of luck with the Challenge," James claps Harry on the shoulder, and then tugs both of his children in for a hug, "Take care of yourselves, you two. I'll be back soon. Look after your mum, as well."

"We will," Kate swipes roughly at her cheeks, "Make sure Nain and Taid will be safe."

"I will."

They part, and his parents embrace. It lingers, longer than is probably socially acceptable, and certainly long enough for Harry and Kate to feel awkward about it, but his father and grandparents' flight is called to board, and they part reluctantly. They retreat down the air-bridge soon thereafter, and disappear out of sight.

Harry, Kate, and their mother linger until the plane's taxied down the runway, far out of sight, and then slowly make their way out of the airport.

"Do you want to drive home, Harry?"

Harry nods. He's still new to it, but he's gotten pretty comfortable thus far, and quite frankly, his mother looks like she's about to burst into tears. It's been a long time since his father was part of MI-5, and she's grown comfortable and complacent in their regular, if not entirely 9 - 5 jobs. The throwback to wherein her husband's life was often at risk is jarring, evidently, and she's not coping well.

Kate certainly isn't, and if Harry's honest with himself, he's not, either.

They'll be okay though - they all will. Anything less doesn't bear consideration.


	47. Part 1: Chapter 47: Parts Of You

**Welcome to the Jungle**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter, or Glee. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Part One: Fifteen**

 **Chapter Forty-Seven: parts of You**

They place third.

It's not enough to earn themselves a place in the Euro Challenge finals in Washington DC, but out of the 25 Ohio schools that had participated, it's not a bad showing. Disappointing, certainly, but they'd still had the opportunity to present in front of representatives of the European Union, and Harry can't complain.

"So, are you still going to shave your head?" Leanne asks Puck.

Puck had declared (dramatically) that if they don't advance to the next stage of the Euro Challenge competition, he'd shave his head in a style of Leanne and Flora's (their sophomore teammates) choosing. The girls had already decided on a mohawk cut, and Harry's been struggling to imagine it ever since.

They're clustered in Harry and Puck's hotel room, ostensibly to bury their sorrows in junk food, and it's not a bad time. Puck's somehow smuggled in a bottle of vodka they've mixed with lemonade, and Mr Sinclair has (mercifully) been pretty lax with the bed checks.

"Hell yes," Puck emphatically replies, "It's going to be epic!"

Flora sighs wistfully, and combs a hand through Puck's hair. SHe's a little tipsy, and Harry makes a mental note to cut her off the vodka. "Your hair's so nice though. I love these curls."

Leanne nods her agreement. "They're really nice, Puck. Are you sure you want to?"

Puck nods, "I'd probably have shaved it anyway."

"I'll make the appointment then," Flora acquiesces, "It's a group outing, isn't it?"

Harry and Puck aren't particularly close friends with Flora or Leanne, but over too many hours of research, discussion, planning, editing, and practising, they've developed something of a rapport. It probably wouldn't happen often, but Harry can't imagine it'd be a chore to spend a few hours with the girls, and moreover, Harry doesn't want to end the Euro Challenge on an even worse note than third place.

"Of course," Harry confirms, "Someone will have to make sure he doesn't back out."

Puck squints at him, mock affronted. "Are you questioning my badassness?"

Harry's pretty sure there isn't a correct answer to that, so he pours himself another drink (solely lemonade), shoves a handful of chips in his mouth, and pretends he hadn't heard the question.

"Your mum's going to kick your arse."

"Nah, she's all for expressing one's self and shit," Puck answers, "As long as I can still wear a kippah for Passover next week, I'm good."

Harry eyes him dubiously, unconvinced, but doesn't argue. "If you say so."

"What happens if you can't?" Leanne asks, curious.

"Dad will be here, so if Mom doesn't beat him to it, then he'll shave what isn't already gone."

Pucks' Dad, Mr Dubois, is visiting for Passover with his new girlfriend. Puck's not particularly enthused by the prospect of another woman in his father's life, but on his own, he'd come to the conclusion that it wasn't any of his business, and so long as everyone remained happy, then he wouldn't complain.

Harry doesn't pretend to understand it. Mr Dubois and Ms Puckerman are pretty amicable - apparently they're friends, even - but spending a holiday with your ex-wife and current girlfriend seems a little excruciating.

It's none of Harry's business, in any case, so he doesn't dwell on it much.

"Well, just in case, we'll have to take a lot of photos," Leanne says decisively, "No one would believe us, otherwise."

"Put them on Facebook," Flora agrees.

And unsurprisingly, Puck doesn't argue.

-!- -#-

Under the supervision of his mother, Harry drives home. His parents are pretty supportive of his determination to receive his license as soon as possible, and subsequently, Harry's already clocked 25 practice hours behind the wheel. He's completed his eight hours of driving lessons, too, and although it hasn't been completely smooth sailing, Harry's enthusiasm hasn't waned.

"Have you heard from Dad?"

"Yes," Lily answers, "I speak to him every day. He's helping your grandparents settle in to Cardigan and whatnot. Everything's all right, so far."

Harry nods his acknowledgement, and a knot of worry he's nursed all week loosens. He's still concerned, about his father and grandparents alike, but they speak no more regarding the matter. Instead, Lily updates Harry on her and Kate's uneventful week in Lima, on her most recent phone call with her unpleasant sister, Petunia, on events at the Steam House in his absence. She quizzes Harry on the Euro Challenge, commiserates with Harry about their loss, and then distracts him with an impromptu singalong to Whitney Houston's 'Greatest Hits' album. It's a riot, and Harry's still smiling by the time they make it home.

Kate's there with Colin, cuddled up on the back patio, doting on Frodo and Sam and being generally cutesy. They've been together for two months now, and in that time, it's become abundantly obvious that Colin more or less worships the ground Kate walks on.

It'd be disturbing, perhaps, if it wasn't entirely reciprocal, but nevertheless, Harry's baffled by it.

How can 14 year olds be so rapt up in each other to the exclusion of everyone else? Not unhealthily, thank God for small favours, but it's as though they're completely oblivious to the attractive qualities of other people, and Harry doesn't get it. He's not sure he's ever felt like that.

"Why aren't you pissed that they were home alone?"

"Because I've had a very open conversation with your sister regarding their relationship, and she's not at all prepared to have sex," Lily replies frankly.

Harry grimaces. He has no intention of being an overprotective brother, but honestly, "Too much information, Mum."

"You asked."

"I'll never do _that_ again," he mumbles, helps himself to a punnet of strawberries, and approaches the door, "I'm off."

"Where are you going?" Lily calls after him.

"The park!"

As part of Ethan Summerby's birthday celebrations, Cedric's organised an informal soccer game at a park near their school, and Harry's actually looking forward to it. Invitations are open, but most of the people attending are soccer enthusiasts and friends, and it's a new, refreshing change from the usual Saturday night party he's come to expect from the student body of William McKinley High.

Fred and George Weasley had been onto something when they'd mentioned, early on in the school year, how repetitive such parties became. Too bad Harry hadn't really understood the fact at the time.

-!- -#-

There's already a game in play by the time Harry arrives, but Cedric's flipping burger patties on the barbecue. His dad's close by, in conversation with someone else's dad, and Cedric looks kind of bored.

"Hey," Harry greets his friend, "Great turn out."

Most of the two WMHS soccer teams have made an appearance, as have assorted friends and family members. Viktor and Fleur are there, cuddling under the shade of a maple tree, lost in a world of their own. Between school, their respective commitments, and life in general, Harry hasn't seen much of them lately, but they look all right - happy, if a bit worn out - and it's good to see.

"Hey," Cedric replies, pleasantly surprised, "You made it."

"I did," Harry confirms, "Mum just wanted to come straight home, so…"

"How did the competition go?"

"Third place. We're not going to DC, but," he shrugs. Maybe it's just that he's so tired, but Harry can't find it in himself to be too cut up about it. He'd done his best, and although it's trite, it's all he could have done.

"Third is still pretty awesome," Cedric concludes. He flips a few more patties, and Mr Diggory watches him with a gimlet eye. Cedric remains unfazed. "How was it, otherwise?"

"Pretty good," Harry answers, "What about you? How's your break been?"

Cedric shrugs. "Can't complain. Been waiting for the ACT scores to come back, but I don't know, I'm not too worried. I'm sitting the SAT's in June, and they're my main priority."

Sitting the ACT's and SAT's both seems like a horrible idea to Harry, but each to their own, he supposes. He's got no idea what he'll do at that point, himself, but he's got time to think about it, and more pressing is the question of whether or not he'll sit his O Levels at the end of his Sophomore Year. His parents haven't insisted on it, but they've expressed that it's something they'd like he and Kate to consider for themselves; particularly if either of them are interested or invested in a future in the UK.

harry, who is more or less _expected_ to return to the motherland at some point in the future, has begun researching the requirements and expectations of a student sitting the International O Levels, and they are rather demanding. A lot more than the standard US high school curriculum, in any case.

"Have you started looking at colleges?"

Cedric nods. "I want to have a short list by summer, but I guess we'll see if I actually manage it."

"Good luck," Harry offers his friend a quick, encouraging squeeze on the shoulder, and Cedric gives him a brief, tired smile.

"Thanks, man."

Harry wanders the gathering, greeting friends and acquaintances as he goes. Leanne's side by side with Katie, giggling over a few upperclassmen on the impromptu soccer field. Ron, Seamus, Dean, and Frankie are clustered around a picnic bench, mowing their way through potato chips, pretzels, crackers and the like, and critiquing the soccer game between mouthfuls.

On the impromptu field, boys and girls play indiscriminately, Fred and George, Lee, Ethan, Angelina and Alicia among them. There are others, Padma Patil, Terence Higgs and Graeme Montague to name a few, and it seems as though they're having a blast.

Harry helps himself to a can of soda from one of the coolers, drops into a seat beside Ron, and knocks fists, clasps hands, and offers waves in greeting. Cedric's organised a great party, and with soccer, food, and company on the table, it's an ideal way to end his (entirely too brief) Spring Break.


	48. Part 1: Chapter 48: Somebody That I

**Welcome to the Jungle**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter, or Glee. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Chapter Forty-Eight: Somebody That I Used To Know**

When Puck rocks up at school with a mohawk, it turns heads. Most people would have already seen pictures; if not on Facebook, then courtesy of Jacob Ben-Israel's WMHS centric gossip blog, but there's nothing quite like the real thing. It's something akin to a car wreck: people just can't look away.

Puck had received the haircut the day prior, in the company of Leanne, Flora, and Harry himself, and as Puck preens under the attention his new haircut earns him, Harry's still struggling to come to terms with the fact his friend had actually done it. He looks sort of ridiculous, but under the impression it makes him look more badass, Puck loves it.

"What did Ms P say?" Harry queries. They're at their lockers, Alison Prescott nowhere in sight..

"Nothing," Puck answers, chuckling, "She wasn't impressed though. You should have seen her face!"

"I can imagine," Harry acknowledges. He gathers up the things he'll need for his next few classes, shuts his locker, and slumps against the closed door, "I can't believe she didn't make you shave it off."

"I guess she wants me to get it out of my system before I finish high school, or something," Puck shrugs, clueless, and shoulders his backpack, "But whatever, who cares why, right?"

Harry absently hums his acknowledgement. "I guess so."

They split before the loitering Hall Monitor can give them grief, and Harry makes his way towards the Social Studies class he shares with Matt. His friend is already there, flirting with Angelina Johnson's little sister, and Harry opts not to bother him. Instead, he drops into his seat and produces the things he'll need for class, and settles in to await their teacher's arrival.

Matt splits from Tiana and drops into the seat beside Harry's. "I have news."

"Yeah?" Harry glances at him, expectant. "What is it?"

"Quinn and Finn are back together."

Harry rolls his eyes, irritated and long-suffering, and glances towards the front of the room. Their teacher still hasn't arrived. "What the hell, Rutherford! Are you running a gossip column now?"

"Nah man," Matt denies, unruffled, "Santana and I are tight, you know?"

Harry nods, but doesn't pry further. Matt and Santana have made no strides towards labelling whatever they've got going on, and although Harry - like the rest of their friends - has wondered about it, he hasn't pushed for details. It's none of his business, and after everything with Cho and Cedric, and himself and Quinn, Harry's a bit burnt out by it all. Furthermore, Harry's pretty sure not even Matt and Santana know what's going on with them, and maybe it's better that way. Less pressure, or whatever.

In any case, Matt's relationship - such as it is - with Santana means he's got a direct line to the Finn and Quinn show, and he's apparently got no qualms about keeping Harry updated with all of the gory details of a pair who are quickly becoming one of _those_ couples.

"Thanks for the head's up," Harry sighs. He won't be startled by their PDA's in the hallway, at least, and he can't wait for the day the sight of them stops mattering to him. It's not that he still has feelings for Quinn, and nor is it that he still misses her in any notable way, shape, or form. Rather, it's more the fact it grates on him, knowing that Quinn has been able to let him go so easily. Arrogant it may be, but Harry doesn't like the thought that he's so effortlessly replaceable (by Finn Hudson, no less). Moreover, to be reminded of the fact on a regular basis? He hates it, and as such, Summer can't arrive soon enough.

It'll be nice not to have to see Quinn Fabray and Finn Hudson every day. It's weird, because he and Quinn had been friends at one point, had bonded over books and movies and music, but somewhere along the way, they'd lost that foundation, and there was no going back now. Not after everything that had happened between them. It's unfortunate, but Quinn wouldn't be the first friend Harry's lost as a result of actions taken, and he doubts she'll be the last. It's simply the way of things, and Harry had come to terms with the fact a long time ago..

"No problem," Matt answers, nonchalant, and turns the conversation to work, and in particular, a detailed explanation of everything he hates about his job at McDonald's. Harry tries to commiserate, but his work at the Steam House isn't the worst thing out there. Moreover, he hates it even less with his decreased hours, and at the end of the day, he's made some pretty awesome friends from the place. Even Penelope and Gemma, and to a lesser extent, the other team members who aren't his age, or aren't WMHS classmates, or maybe aren't as close to him as Ron and Hermione. They're still friends, and they still make the Steam House an enjoyable place to work, and Harry can't and won't forget that.

Somewhere in Matt's tangent, their substitute teacher arrives, and quickly leaves them to their own devices. It's the start of term, which means Harry doesn't have a backlog of assessment or homework to wade his way through, so he reluctantly starts the Maths homework he'd been assigned that morning. All the while, he and Matt's conversation continues.

"Why don't you look for another job?"

Matt gives him the side eye, expression unimpressed. "This is Lima, dude. Do you know how hard it is for fifteen year olds to get jobs here?"

Harry blinks, bemused. He'd fallen into his job at the Steam House as a result of the fact his mother owns it, and he has never actually considered how different his peers' experiences would be in comparison. He's never had reason to. "No?"

"It's fucking hard."

"Won't get anywhere if you don't try."

Matt sighs, inexplicably weary. "Maybe during the Summer. I can't be bothered right now."

Harry shrugs. "Suit yourself."

Their conversation has brought Matt's mood down, so they don't talk much further. Instead, Harry somehow completes his homework between the distractions provided by the rest of his classmates, and then occupies his last few minutes of class by doodling a cartoon caricature of Puck (and his new haircut) in the blank margin of his worksheet. He only remembers afterwards that the worksheet in question is supposed to be handed in to his teacher during their next Maths class, and ink isn't exactly erasable.

"It could be worse," Matt reasons on their way to the Foreign Language Department, "Could be Mr Vaughn."

"God, he'd have me in detention until Commencement!"

"Exactly!" Matt laughs, but adds, "Anyway, I wouldn't worry. It's good. He'll probably like it."

"That'll be the day."

As usual, they split when Harry reaches his classroom, and Matt meanders towards his Spanish lesson as though he has all the time in the world. His teacher, Mr Schuester, is a pushover of the highest order, and his students can get away with practically anything. Furthermore, Schue is also one of those teachers who tries hard to be a friend to his students, and most of Harry's classmates shamelessly take advantage of him as a result.

As he reluctantly shuffles into the Japanese classroom, Harry can't decide if he pities Mr Schuester or not, but either way, Harry envies those of his classmates lucky enough to take Spanish, or even luckier enough to avoid their Foreign Language requirement entirely. Most of his teachers are hardasses with high expectations, and to court their disappointment? It's not worth the trouble. Not when such trouble would involve even more work on his plate, and a meeting with his parents and the WMHS Guidance Counsellor to boot. He's got enough to worry about as is, after all.

-!- -#-

 **Author's Note:** The school year is wrapping up, and so is Part 1 of Welcome to the Jungle. I'm thinking Chapter 50 will be the last, but I may be wrong. Depends on the muse, but I've only got two more plot points to write out, so…

Anyway, thanks for reading.


	49. Chapter 49: Pompeii

**Welcome to the Jungle**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter, or Glee. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Part One: Fifteen**

 **Chapter Forty-Nine: Pompeii**

James Potter returns to Lima ten days after he'd left. He looks wrecked, somehow, as though he's experienced a decade of suffering in his brief time away, and the first thing he does is hug Lily. He buries his face in her neck, and they exchange inaudible whispers between themselves.

Meanwhile, Harry busies himself with retrieving his father's luggage off the baggage carousel, and then pretends to be busy on his phone in order to avoid their (or anyone else's) notice. He's rather embarrassed by his parents' display, but with the look on his father's face, he can't bring himself to interrupt them. The man clearly needs the comfort, and Harry's not oblivious enough to deny him that.

Eventually, though, his parents separate, and James greets Harry with a hug Harry returns with a sigh and a roll of his eyes.

"Hi, Dad," Harry greets him, "How was the flight?"

"Long," James answers, "I'm glad to be home."

The three of them make their way to the car, chatting idly between themselves. Harry's quizzed about school, about baseball and his friends and the Euro Challenge. He asks about how Charles and Dorea had settled in at the family's seat in Ceredigion County, in Wales, and whether or not James had had an opportunity to visit with the Blacks and Lupins while he was there.

"I did," James confirms, "They're well. Remus and Sirius are busy, but Leo's band is fantastic. Have you seen any videos?"

"Some," Harry answers, "Leo doesn't like to share much, but Ursa's sent me a few."

Leo's band doesn't perform any gigs outside of school sponsored events, but they have a MySpace page and a Youtube Channel, and although they're relatively new, they're also rather talented. As a result, they've received a decent amount of traffic on both pages, and it's all rather exciting.

"Did you know he's gay?"

"Is he?" Lily asks, surprised. As she does so, Harry casts a sideways glance at his father, unsure of how to answer.

James notices his hesitation, and explains, "Sirius said he came out a couple of months ago."

Harry nods his acknowledgement. "He told me over Christmas."

James smiles softly, and for a moment, the weariness on his face fades. "I'm glad."

They reach Lily's car, and Harry settles himself in the driver's seat with a sigh. The prospect of an hour's drive ahead of him isn't an appealing one, and even the reminder that it'll bring him one step closer to his license is beginning to wear thin.

Predictably, Lily spends the commute between Dayton and Lima backseat driving, and his father sighs, exasperated. It's irritating, particularly since James is so calm in comparison, but he grins and bears it, and eagerly awaits the day he'll have a license - and a car - of his own.

Eventually, Harry pulls up in the driveway of their home, and they all sigh a breath of relief.

"Is Kate home?" James asks.

"She should be," Lily answers.

Indeed, Kate's home, sprawled out across the three-seater in the living room, an episode of 'Gossip Girl' on TV. She's demolished a bowl of chips and most of a 1.25 litre bottle of soda, and even as Kate greets their father with a hug, their mother is already frowning her disapproval.

"You'd better eat all of your dinner tonight, Katherine."

Kate rolls her eyes. "Yeah, whatever, Mum. How was it, Dad? Did you bring back anything interesting?"

"Maybe," James hedges, good-natured, "I guess you'll have to wait and see."

As the dogs crowd them for attention, and as the cat watches from his perch on the back of the couch, they sit and chat for a while, and as Lily prepares dinner, James produces a book of cryptic crosswords to keep them busy. He looks tired - and why wouldn't he be, when travel is exhausting, and the UK is five hours ahead of them? - but he doesn't let that deter him. Instead, James soundly schools Harry and Kate in producing answers out of nowhere, and it's not the worst way Harry could pass his time.

Nevertheless, Harry's still glad to retreat to his bedroom. It's not until he's cleaned the kitchen to his mother's impossible standard, and definitely not before he's gotten into an argument with Kate about the fact she'd not emptied the dishwasher that morning, but it's early yet, and a great deal of his friends are online to pester him via IM.

As he chats with them, and half-heartedly makes inroads into his weekend homework, he receives an email alert. It's a link from Jacob Ben-Israel - the most recent update on his blog - and Harry's about to delete it, entirely uninterested, when the headline catches his eye. It's titled 'Does WMHS Have a Pedophile on Staff?' and at length, it proceeds to tear strips into the reputation and character of one of WMHS' music teachers, Sandy Ryerson, his actions concerning the school's Glee Club members, and the rumour of a pending sexual assault complaint from a student, identity unknown.

Harry gapes for a while, uncomprehending, but there's already a dozen comments unearth JBI's post - shocked, accusing, denying, skeptical - and Harry's drawn a complete mental blank. It doesn't seem remotely real, and yet, a sexual assault complaint isn't something done lightly.

While Harry is busy trying to make sense of Jacob Ben-Israel's post, Santana opens up a group chat with Harry and all of their mutual friends. Her initial message consists of a screenshot of the blog post in question, followed by a succinct 'What the fuck?' and more question marks than Harry can throw a stick at.

In the minutes that follow, Harry takes comfort in the knowledge that his friends are equally as shocked and confused, but the matter is still on his mind as he goes to sleep, and his last thought is of whether or not he's honestly just spent the last year in the same school as someone who'd knowingly and actively preyed on his classmates, male and female alike.

It's an unpleasant thought. Harry's worried about bullies, he's worried about assessment, detention, expectations. He's _never_ had to worry about predators like that, and it's sobering.

When he wakes, though, it's a revelation overshadowed by that day's morning news. There was an attack in London at seven o'clock (GMT) - an explosion in King's Cross Station - and first responders are still tallying the death toll.

His father's face is grim, attention on the TV, even as he presses buttons on his phone. He dials someone - Sirius or Remus, presumably - but the line is busy, and he hangs up with an exasperated sigh.

Harry texts Leo and Ursa, a simple 'Are you safe?.

In the few hours that follow, he receives no answer.

 **Author's Note:** Ugh, procrastinating like a boss. Why was I excited to go back to uni again?


	50. Part 1: Chapter 50: Losing Grip

**Welcome to the Jungle**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter, or Glee. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Part One: Fifteen**

 **Chapter Fifty: Losing Grip**

Harry's preoccupation persists throughout the day. His thoughts are on London, on his family there, on the terrifying thought that if his father hadn't returned when he had, he, too, might have been caught up in the attack. King's Cross Station is one of the busiest - if not _the_ busiest - transfer points in London, and it's not a stretch to assume James had passed through it at least once during his stay.

Despite the terrible news though, the student body of McKinley High is entirely unfazed. If they're not completely unaware of the goings on in London, then the distance makes it unimportant, and Harry's not sure if their disinterest makes him want to laugh or cry.

There are a few exceptions, of course. Hermione checks the BBC website almost as often as Harry, and Harry learns both sets of Frankie's grandparents live in London. They're shaken up, but they're okay, and determined to get through it, as they always have.

.

His friends' shared concerns aren't reassuring, and restless, Harry paces the halls during his lunch hour. He's still not received word from anyone, and the uncertainty is unbearable.

All he knows is that no one's claimed the attack as their own. It's got Harry wondering about the trouble back home his father had mentioned months ago now, but mostly he's just panicking about the lack of information regarding his family's wellbeing. He already knows Remus, Dora, and Teddy are fine - they're in Cardiff, and far from any terrorist attacks there - and so too are his grandparents, Charles and Dorea.

Sirius and his family, though…

It's tempting, to blow up Leo's phone with calls and messages, but not only would Harry's parents kick his arse for the resulting phone bill, Leo's phone is switched off. Ursa's is too, and the knowledge is a lead weight against his chest. He's freaking out.

It's somewhere near the auditorium when Kate calls him. She wants answers - has he heard from Mum or Dad, or Leo, or Ursa, or _anyone_? - and when he answers with his denial, her disappointment is profound.

"I'm scared," she admits quietly. Her voice is wobbly, and she is on the verge of tears.

Harry sighs, drained. "Me too, Kit-Kat."

They linger over the phone line, not talking, but it's okay. Harry finds comfort in the sound of his sister's breathing, in the sound of her voice as she hums quietly under her breath. He bids her farewell, however, as the sound of someone approaching draws his attention.

"I'll see you this afternoon," he says, "Let me know if you hear from anyone."

"Yeah, okay. See you."

Harry pockets his phone as Daphne Greengrass turns the corner. Her head is bowed, her blonde hair a curtain around her face. She's walking fast, her arms crossed defensively over her chest, and Harry clears his throat to let her know she's not alone in the hall.

In response, Greengrass startles, and looks up to meet his gaze with her own.

She looks wrecked. Her eyes are bloodshot, red rimmed and puffy, and her cheeks are still damp with tears.

"Rough day?" Harry asks, for lack of anything else to say. It's abundantly obvious she's been crying, and Harry's not sure why he's talking to her at all.

"How could you tell?" She quips. The crisp sounds of a London accent - upper-class, and not diminished in the slightest - is jarring in the otherwise empty corridor, and Harry can't fathom how he hasn't heard this girl speak all year. He'd have noticed that voice, a husky alto, clear, the accent unmistakeable among the throng of mid-western Americans.

"Lucky guess," Harry answers blandly. He combs a hand through his hair, palms the back of his neck, and attempts a smile. It mostly fails. "You've still got family in the motherland too, then?"

Daphne huffs an inaudible laugh, casts her gaze up and down the hall, and shrugs half-heartedly. "Extended family, mostly. We're not close. Dad though… He's in London, for work" Her lips pull into an unconscious grimace, and her eyes well up with tears, "We can't get in touch with him."

"I'm sorry. I hope he's okay."

Harry could say that London's a big city, that there are thousands of people who traverse King's Cross Station every hour. He could say that the chances of her father being caught up in the blast is extremely slim, but he doesn't.

He doesn't want to diminish her concern. He doesn't want to lie, either, and nor does he want to be a hypocrite. He's worried, too.

Ursa, Leo, Cassiopeia, Sirius, and Marlene pass through King's Cross every morning, Monday to Friday, to get to work and school, respectively. The radio silence isn't a good sign, and the reality that the phone lines are probably clogged up by other concerned relatives doesn't calm Harry in the slightest. He highly doubts it helps Greengrass, either.

"Thanks," she says, half-hearted. She slumps against the wall across from him, curls herself inward, and wraps her arms tighter around her middle.

Harry hadn't thought a girl her height - 5'8", maybe 5'9", could ever manage to look so small.

"I hope your family's okay, too," she adds quietly.

"Thanks," Harry echoes, and they linger in an awkward, endless silence. Harry breaks it. "I'd better go… Get my stuff. For class?"

Daphne nods her acknowledgement. "Sure. I guess I'll see you around, or something."

They part ways. Harry makes his way to his locker, thoughts far from school, and Daphne continues in the opposite direction. Neither of them look back.

Unsurprisingly, Puck's already at their lockers, a girl pressed up against his own, the two of them preoccupied by a very involved make-out session Harry has no interest in being witness to. He ignores them, busies himself with his books instead, and then retreats to his art class with another weary sigh. It's been an intolerably long day, more so than Harry had ever imagined possible, and it's nowhere near over yet.

In fact, Harry doesn't know it yet, but it's only going to drag on further.

-!- -#-

That afternoon, Harry and Kate are excused from baseball training and choir practice, respectively. Their father, uncharacteristically early from work, picks them up directly after their classes let out, and drives them home in a heavy, dreadful blanket of silence.

Kate fidgets restlessly, Harry stares stubbornly out the window, and the trip home doesn't last long enough.

"Go to the kitchen," James says. He doesn't glance at either of them, "I have some news."

Harry doesn't want to. He doesn't even want to leave the car, never mind learn what terrible news warrants an absence from baseball and karate. He'd worried all day, certainly, but with the knowledge he's not going to like what he's about to hear, Harry would prefer his ignorance.

He glances at James though, worn-down and as weary as he's ever been, and Harry does as he is told without protest.

Unsurprisingly, Lily is already in the kitchen. She's been stress baking, and it smells amazing, like chocolate and caramel and all of the decadent things.

"Hi, Mum." Harry makes himself comfortable at the dining table, and Kate wordlessly does the same across from him. Her hands shake.

"Hey, you two," Lily gives them a half-hearted smile. SHe's been crying, and the lead weight that's been pressed against Harry's chest all day somehow gets even heavier.

James makes an appearance soon thereafter. He takes a moment to speak in low tones with his wife, they hug briefly, and then they both take seats next to Harry and Kate, respectively.

The silence that follows is deafening.

James clears his throat. "The first thing you should know is that Leo, Ursa, and Cassiopeia are all safe. They weren't at the station."

"What about Sirius and Marley?"

"Sirius was involved with the recovery operations before the second blast," James says, "He has some minor injuries, but he'll make a full recovery. Marlene…"

"Marlene was on the train," Lily takes up where James falters, "She's alive, but she's in a critical condition. At the moment, she's in a coma, and her doctors aren't confident she'll wake up."

Although he hears her, Harry struggles to absorb his mother's words. It's surreal, almost, too unbelievable to be real. Harry can't picture Marlene as anything but the snarky, vivacious woman he'd shared his Christmas with, can't picture Sirius without her by his side, can't imagine her not there to fret over Harry, Kate, and little Teddy Lupin as much as she frets over Leo, Ursa, and Cassie.

"She'll be okay, won't she?" Kate implores, "She's strong, she's healthy…"

Lily sighs, disconsolate, and combs a hand through Kate's long hair. "We don't know, baby. We'll just have to wait and see."

 **Author's Note:** I was planning to end Part 1 after Harry speaks with Daphne, but the muse had other plans. A couple more chapters, I think. Couldn't end it here, you know? Anyway, until next time, -t.


	51. Part 1: Chapter 51: Slipped Away

**Welcome to the Jungle**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter, or Glee. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Part One: Fifteen**

 **Chapter Fifty-One: Slipped Away**

They get the news on Thursday morning. Marlene is gone, having slipped away in the night, and Harry is left bereft. It doesn't seem real, in some respects, because he'd not seen her, he'd not had a chance to say goodbye, and there is an ocean between himself and Sirius, Leo, Ursa, and Cassie.

Harry can't imagine how they're feeling. He'd only seen Marlene sporadically over the years, and although she'd been family, although he had fond memories of the time he'd spent with her, she wasn't his mother.

Nevertheless, his life seems irrevocably altered by her passing, in a way Harry can't quite pinpoint.

Perhaps it's the nature of her death, a result of senseless, inexplicable violence on a day that would have been completely ordinary, otherwise. Perhaps it's because she wasn't elderly, like the only other people he'd had to farewell this way, or perhaps it's something else entirely.

Harry doesn't know, and neither does he spend a lot of time dwelling on it. Instead, he proceeds through Thursday and Friday on autopilot, sorting out his week away with his teachers and the WMHS administration, packing up a small suitcase for the trip to London, trying to figure out what on Earth to say to Sirius, Leo, Ursa, and Cassie when they they get there.

 _Is_ there anything he can say?

Somehow, Harry doubts it.

-!- -#-

There's a knock on his door, and Harry turns on his bed with a weary sigh. He turns down his music, calls out that it's open, and then watches wordlessly as his father steps through the doorway.

James Potter's eyes scan Harry's room, pass over the suitcase and backpack propped by the door, and settle on the 15 year old on the bed. "All packed?"

Harry glances pointedly at his bags. "Yes?"

James nods his acknowledgement, absent-minded, and settles carefully on the edge of Harry's bed. The teen shifts to accommodate him, tucks a pillow under his chin, and waits quietly as his father gathers himself.

"I spoke with Sirius today."

Harry's interest is peaked. "How is he?"

"He's…" James hesitates, "Keeping busy. Making arrangements."

'For the funeral' goes without saying.

"And the others?"

"They're as well as can be expected."

Which, given the circumstances, is probably a polite way of saying they're a collective wreck. No surprise, all things considered, but Harry's heart hurts for them. For Sirius, too, who shouldn't have to bury his wife, but no one's ever said life is fair.

"I came down here to check on _you_ though."

"Me?"

"Losing someone in an attack like that… It's hard to make sense of something so senseless. I just want to make sure you know it's all right to be upset, or angry, or confused," he meets Harry's gaze with his own, "It's okay to grieve."

Harry's smile is feeble. "I don't think it's hit me yet."

"That's all right, too," James assures him. Harry hadn't been particularly concerned, but it's good to know, "There isn't a timeline for grief."

Harry exhales through his nose. "Do they know who did it?"

His father's lips thin with his displeasure. "The bomber was a fellow by the name of Bartholomew Crouch. He was part of a local organisation. They call themselves the Death Eaters."

The bomber's identity hasn't been released to the public. Harry assumes - correctly - that his father only knows because of his contacts in England's domestic terrorism task force, and it goes without saying that Harry's expected not to share that information around.

"Why did he do it?"

"To cause fear, to cause suffering, to bring attention to their organisation? I don't know, Harry. I wish I could give you a definite answer, but these things… Most of the time, they'll never have a satisfactory reason."

Harry drops his head onto his pillow, and stares blankly at his bedroom wall. His dad lingers, lost in his own thoughts, and Iron and Wine plays on. Eventually, James gets to his feet, reaches down to squeeze Harry's shoulder, and offers the teen a small, tired smile.

"Better get some sleep, Harry. It's going to be a long trip."

Given the threats made to their family, and and the discomfortingly high amount of criminal and terrorist activity currently present throughout Britain, James and Lily aren't particularly thrilled to allow Harry or Kate to return to England with them. They all need their closure though, need to be able to say goodbye to a woman who'd featured in their lives for as long as her children, and neither parent have it in them to deny Harry or Kate that.

That said, they're scheduled to leave Ohio early the next morning, to take a flight out from Dayton. They'll board a connecting flight out of New York, to arrive in Cardiff, where they are slated to meet Charles and Dorea for the drive to London. There are still no flights in and out of the city, but they are undeterred. Come hell or high water, they'll be there for their family in this difficult time.

"Yeah, okay," Harry acquiesces, "I'll try. Night, Dad."

"Goodnight, Harry. Sleep well."

And honestly, Harry tries.

He mostly fails.

-!- -#-

On a good day, it takes a bit under three hours to travel between Cardiff and London. James has been volunteered for the task, and squashed into the back of a rented SUV, Harry settles in for a long drive. He and Kate's parents and grandparents catch up in the two rows ahead of them, and Harry listens to their conversation absently, thoughts mostly occupied by those awaiting them in London.

Despite his preoccupation, and despite the circumstances, it's good to see his grandparents. It's been a bit over two weeks since their departure from Lima, and although Harry's family has quietly readjusted to their absence once more, it's a comfort to see them safe and unharmed. Harry had worried about them, and it goes without saying: He hadn't been the only one.

Next to him, Kate is silent. She leans against the window, her headphones in her ears and her eyes on the passing scenery. Her grief has been a quiet, subtle affair, far from the loud, confused despair after their Grandpa Evans, or the even louder, despondent hysterics after their Grandmother Evans soon thereafter. Maybe it's because she's older, or because Marlene isn't the first person she's had to say goodbye to, or maybe it's because she's determined to stay strong for Ursa's sake.

Harry doesn't know, and it's not likely he'll ever find out. He's not inclined to asking, anyway, and rather than dwell on the mystery that is his sister, he dons his own headphones, slouches further in his seat, and watches silently as the countryside passes him by.

That is, at least, until they reach London proper.

"I don't get it," Kate breaks the silence that's fallen over the car, "How can they just act like nothing's happened?"

Outside their windows, Londoners seem to proceed through the daily grind without fanfare. There is laughter, there are smiles, there are tears and frowns, and there is everything in between. There's fear too, though, and anger, and in spite of these things, there is a stubborn sort of determination to keep on keeping on, anyway.

Harry can't decide if it's admirable or stupid.

"I guess the locals are determined not to let them win," Dorea says thoughtfully, "Or perhaps it's just in a person's nature to endure. Who can say?"

"I don't think I could do it," Kate says, "I don't think I'd even want to leave the house."

"I think you'd surprise yourself," Charles opines.

Kate leans forward in her seat, props her chin against the back of Charles', and eyes him curiously. "Why do you say that?"

Their grandfather meets her gaze with a small, soft smile. "You're here now, aren't you?"

Kate exhales through her nose, flops back against her seat, and crosses her arms over her chest. No one else contributes to the conversation, and the drive continues.

And before Harry's truly prepared for it, they arrive.

He still has no idea what to say, but it seems he's run out of time to figure it out.


	52. Part 1: Chapter 52: Goodbye to You

**Welcome to the Jungle**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter, or Glee. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Part One: Fifteen**

 **Chapter Fifty-Two: Goodbye to You**

Sirius' brother, Regulus, meets them at the door. Harry and Kate have only met him a few times, but he's family - albeit distantly so - and it's therefore no surprise when Dorea greets him with a hug. It's returned, as are the handshakes offered by Charles and James, and the kiss on the cheek by Lily.

Harry receives a handshake, as well, Kate an awkward hug, but the greetings are quickly forgotten as they're shepherded into the house. It's quiet, the presence of grief almost tangible around them, emphasised by the distinct lack of Leo, Ursa, or Cassiopeia to greet them.

"How are they doing?" Dorea asks Regulus. She speaks softly, as though she can't bear to break the quiet around them, and Harry swallows hard. Here, in this house, where Marlene lived and loved and everything else, her death feels a lot more real, and he's not sure how to handle it.

Regulus grimaces. "As well as can be expected."

"Can we go see them?" Kate asks, hesitant.

"You can try," Regulus answers, "They're in their rooms. I can't guarantee they'll let you in…"

"All right," Harry acquiesces, "We'll try."

Neither Harry nor Kate need directions to Leo's or Ursa's bedrooms. They haven't visited their friends' home often, but over summers passed, they've visited often enough to know where to find them.

They approach in silence, the bedrooms side by side in an upstairs hallway. It's quiet, for the most part, but for the sounds of Cassiopeia's ragged hiccoughs. Sirius is with her, talking too low for Harry to hear, but in any case, he doesn't try to listen in.

Some things are too private.

Next to him, Kate bites back her tears, offers him a resolute nod, and approaches Ursa's bedroom door. "Sa, it's Kate. Will you let me in?"

Harry tries Leo's door, unsurprised to find it locked. He can hear Leo inside though, plucking aimlessly at the strings of an acoustic guitar. He exhales, pushes back the grief he can feel encroaching inside his heart, and braces himself for what he'll find. Then he knocks.

"Leo, mate, open up."

The sounds of Leo's guitar stop, and there's a long, drawn out pause. Rustling, and then…

"Hey," Leo greets him, expression dull, tone more so. He's pale, bags under his bloodshot, red-rimmed eyes and his hair a mess. It's the worst Harry's ever seen him.

"Hey," Harry echoes. He steps through the doorway of his friend's bedroom, shuts it behind him, and doesn't bother with words. He hugs Leo instead, tight and unfaltering, and Leo, without ado, without prompting, breaks.

Harry's not surprised. Leo would have spent the last week being a pillar for his sisters, would have done everything to help Sirius through everything, would not have let himself fall apart with anyone else grieving as much as himself. Namely: His family.

Harry though… Harry's always been there. They don't see each other every day, they don't even talk that often, but as much as they know about each other, they're practically brothers. He is, however, more removed from the situation, and therefore, as far as Leo's concerned, he's safe. He won't fall apart - not like Ursa, or Cassie, or Sirius - and for Leo's sake, e doesn't, no matter how much he wants to.

-!- -#-

Dinner is a quiet affair. No one's got anything to say, really, and so they half-heartedly eat their homemade chicken soup and freshly toasted bread instead, and avoid eye contact with anyone else.

Harry and Kate clean up afterwards, again in silence, and return to Leo and Ursa.

The siblings are all together now, Leo and Ursa, and Cassie curled up against Leo's side, but they're quiet.

"Do you want us to leave you alone?" Kate asks, hesitant, "We can give you some space, if you like?"

"It's fine," Ursa answers. She pats the space beside her on Leo's bed, and manages a small, feeble smile, "Come sit down. Tell me about this Colin fellow. How long's it been now?"

Kate does so, and Leo, Ursa, and Cassie grasp onto the distraction like a lifeline. Mostly Ursa, really, but Cassie listens quietly, and Leo somehow musters up enough levity to tease her about her relationship.

Harry, who has no real interest in learning the gory details of his sister's love life, but aware of what his friends are after, plays with Leo's guitar. It's nothing in particular, just a mindless, idle tune. It turns into something else though, to a recognisable chord progression that makes Leo turn his head. He watches, expectant, and Harry hesitates.

"Sing," Cassie coaxes. Her eyes are wide, and hopeful, and Harry doesn't have in it to deny her. He clears his throat instead, repeats the improvised introduction, and starts to sing.

" _Way over yonder is a place that I know_

 _Where I can find shelter, from a hunger and cold_

 _And the sweet tasting good life is so easily found_

 _Way over yonder, that's where I'm bound…_ "

It's an old song, but they all recognise it. Carole King is one of those singers everybody knows, but for them, in particular, 'Tapestry' is an album they've all heard countless times before. It's a particular favourite of all of their parents, Sirius and James, Lily and Marlene, and they'd all learned the lyrics long ago. As such, they all sing along, soft and quiet and sad, to Harry's cover of 'Way Over Yonder', and by the time the song comes to an end, they're all crying.

Harry joins them all on Leo's bed, combs a hand through Cassie's hair as she cries into Ursa's shirt, and wipes away his own tears with his sleeve. Leo's face is in one of his pillows, Kate by his head, Ursa's head in her lap. It's a raw, emotional tableau Harry's never felt or seen before, and he wishes, desperately, that it's all a horrible, terrible dream.

Would that they were so lucky.

-!- -#-

They lay Marlene to rest on Friday, on an incongruously bright, sunny day. The service is beautiful, as much as such things can be, and there are few dry eyes in the chapel, full to bursting.

It's easy to imagine Marlene making a quip about the turn out, more so when Sirius captures every inch of Marlene's bitingly sharp wit, of her deadpan humour, of her unfettered, unabashed zest for life throughout her eulogy.

Harry's respect for the man sky rockets as he does so, somehow able to find it in himself to smile and laugh throughout it, even as he cries. He's very obviously heartbroken, bereaved and bereft without his wife by his side, lost and alone like Harry doesn't ever want to understand.

As Ursa accompanies him on piano, and as a slideshow of photos chosen by Cassiopeia progress on a projector screen erected for that purpose, Leo performs a song he's written himself.

It takes a verse for Kate to put her head in her hands, crying silently. Their mother drapes an arm over her shoulders, but she's crying too, and James has taken one of Dorea's hands in his, his eyes bright. Harry holds his mother's free hand in his, and his stomach churns with guilt…

Leo, Ursa, and Cassiopeia will never again get to do the same. They'll never be held by Marlene again, never hear her laugh, never have her watch their games, or shows, or even argue with her. Marlene McKinnon is gone, and they'll never get her back.

And inside Harry's heart, a newfound hatred for Bartholomew Crouch - and all of his sympathisers - festers.

 **Author's Note:** The song I imagine Leo singing is 'Supermarket Flowers' by Ed Sheeran, but I didn't want to inundate the chapter with lyrics. This song though… The first time I heard it, I cried, and had to give my mum a big hug afterwards. Just imagine the name 'John' replaced with 'Dad' if you check it out, or if you already know it and feel like listening again… Anyway, until next time. Thanks for reading. Leave a review? -t.


	53. Part 1: Chapter 53: Everything Has

**Welcome to the Jungle**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter, or Glee. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Part One: Fifteen**

 **Chapter Fifty-Three: Everything Has Changed**

After everything is said and done, it's oddly jarring to return to Lima, and to McKinley High. Nothing has changed, but in some respects, Harry feels as though he's aged a lifetime in a matter of days.

As a result, the daily grind is stifling. The petty dramas, the homework, his commitment to a game he doesn't even care about. Why is it all so important when across the ocean, people are being killed in their metaphorical back yards? What are they even doing? What is _he_ doing?

"It's not like it's anything new," Puck reasons. They'd scarfed down lunch to steal in some time in the weight room, whereHarry has been venting, and Puck's been listening. It's perhaps one of the most serious conversations they'll ever have. "it's just personal, now."

It's just personal, now.

It's just personal, now.

It's just personal, now.

Maybe Puck's words wouldn't have the same weight if spoken by someone whose grandparents hadn't survived the Holocaust, or maybe Harry's just willing to listen now, where he wasn't sooner. Either way, he drops heavily onto the padded bench attached to one of the weight machines, drops his head in his hands, and thinks about all of the conflict in the world. The Middle East, Africa, South America, and where the hell ever else.

There's always conflict somewhere. There's always going to be someone killing someone else for the sake of their own ideals and/or ambitions. Harry's just never paid attention before.

Not until, as Puck said, it got personal.

"God, I feel like an asshole."

Puck shrugs. "We're all assholes. Besides, it's not like you've had a reason to think about all of it, you know? It's not like it's being reported on the regular."

"No," Harry agrees bitterly, "Maybe it should be."

"Not going to argue with you there, dude."

Harry sighs, and they sit in a heavy, solemn silence. Harry thinks of his father, who'd fought in the Falklands, and of his grandfather, who'd fought in Korea. His Great-Grandfather had been a veteran of World War I, an analyst in World War II, and they are only the most recent in a long line of Potters serving in the British military, or navy, or since applicable, the air force.

Harry has never really thought about following in their footsteps. His father has never indicated any expectation for him to do so, and neither has his grandfather. He's wondering now though, wondering if it's the right thing to do, if it's not, if it will only result in more conflict in the long run.

That aside, Harry can't imagine holding a gun, never mind using it for it's intended purpose.

The very thought makes his stomach churn.

"I'm sorry you lost someone, man," Puck says. He's entirely sincere in his sentiment.

"Yeah," Harry sighs, inexplicably weary, "Me too."

It turns out Bartholomew Crouch Jr was a devout, fanatical member of a sect of people intent on 'purifying' the British Isles. Very alt right in their ideology, and in a world where globalisation is alive and thriving, Harry can't fathom people like that honestly, genuinely existing. Naive of him, perhaps, but true, nevertheless.

Harry glances at his friend, and asks lightly, "You ever thought about joining the army?"

Puck shrugs. "It's crossed my mind, but no, not seriously. Gotta get through high school, y'know?"

Harry nods. "High school. Right."

"You thinking about it?"

"I don't know. Maybe."

Harry's phone alarm blares to life, and neither of them talk further about the matter. They head to their respective classes instead, and Harry tries to lose himself in sketching. He's mostly unsuccessful, and he gives up altogether when Daphne Greengrass drops into the seat across from him.

She looks remarkably put together, her face clear of tears, but Harry doesn't have it in him to ask about her dad. He's not sure he'll like the answer, either way, and he wonders if that makes him a terrible human being.

"Hi," Harry greets her.

"Hello," she answers. She doesn't ask him how he's going, doesn't express her sympathies, doesn't ask him about London, about his absence, about anything, actually. She just opens up her sketchbook, produces a pencil from somewhere Harry can't figure out, and starts to draw.

Harry shares a glance with Brittany, who is as perplexed as Harry feels, but infinitely more unflappable. She simply smiles, shrugs, and returns to her own sketching efforts, humming quietly to herself.

Harry exhales, resigns himself to never understanding the fairer sex, and retrieves his pencil from where he'd dropped it. He stares at his half-hearted attempt at a cityscape, erases it, and starts again. Rather than the London skyline though, he draws the street level entrance to King's Cross Station as he'd last seen it, the sidewalk full of flowers, tributes, candles and framed photographs. It hurts, but it's almost cathartic, in a way, and it consumes his focus until the end of class.

Wordlessly, Harry packs up his things, shoulders his bag, and walks with Brittany out of class. He's perplexed, then, when they're once again joined by Greengrass.

"How's your day going?" He asks, for lack of anything else to say. He doesn't know this girl, and the extent of their past interactions can be summed up to one emotional conversation in which neither of them were in any state to get to know each other.

It's apparently enough though, or something.

Harry's not too sure, truth be told. But then, he's not too sure about much of anything, these days.

"I can't complain," Daphne answers, "And yours?"

"It's nice to have Harry back," Brittany opines airily.

Harry somehow finds it in himself to smile at his friend, and then answers Greengrass, "It's fine. Ready for it to be over."

They make idle chit chat until they have to split to their respective classes. There, Greengrass stops him with a hand on his arm, and Harry looks at her, expectant.

"You were in London, right?"

Harry nods, slowly. "Yes, I was."

Daphne nods, and frowns minutely. There's a small furrow between her eyebrows, and there's something oddly charming about it. "I'm sorry for your loss. And I'm sorry, too, that you have to remember London like that. It's…"

"I've been to London before, many times. I know." He clenches his fists, relaxes them, and then forces a smile, "It's sort of admirable, in a way. There was an attack in the middle of the city, and they just… Kept on keeping on. I can appreciate that sort of spirit."

Daphne's smile is fleeting. "Londoners are a rare breed, aren't they?"

Harry hums his acknowledgement. The warning bell blares. "I've got to go."

"Yeah, me too," Daphne tugs the strap of her satchel higher on her shoulders, "It was… I guess I'll see you around, Potter."

"Yeah," Harry agrees. He steps back, towards the corner, and Daphne turns on her heel. He's not sure she hears him say, "See you."

Harry retreats into his Health class, drops into his usual seat beside Matt, and tries to focus on the lesson.

He mostly fails, but it's okay. Somehow, things don't seem quite as terrible as they had that morning. He's still agitated, still far too conscious of the compatriots of Crouch Jr in the shadows of Britain, making plans, causing trouble, but for now, he's 15 years old, he's just spoken to a girl he's harboured a crush on all year, and things aren't great, but they're okay.

Everything else will just have to wait, and for now, Harry can live with that.

He can do nothing else.

 **Author's Note:** Okay, so this is the end of Part 1. Not the way I saw it ending, to be honest, but I'm satisfied. Part 2 is in the works, if barely, but I probably won't post it until November, at least. Possibly December. It will most likely be another story entirely, but I'll post an AN when I upload Chapter 1.

All of that said, I just want to thank everyone for following, favouriting, and reviewing this labour of love of mine. I appreciate your support, more than I can say, and I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. Until Part 2, guys and gals. -t.


	54. Part 2: Chapter 1: Summer Is Gone

**Welcome to the Jungle**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter, or Glee. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Part Two: Sixteen**

 **Summary:** A lot can change in a year. At 16, Harry Potter has loved and lost and lost again. As it happens, his second year at William McKinley High is shaping up to be as eventful as the first. OOC. Season 1 AU.

 **Rating:** M for language, mild violence, character death, and adult themes.

 **Author:** tlyxor-1.

 **Chapter One: Summer is Gone**

Sophomore Year starts without fanfare. It's different, far from the anxiety and optimism from the year prior, but at the same time, it's exactly as Harry remembers it. There are football players clustered around the side of the school, an unfortunate, unsuspecting Kurt Hummel at their mercy, and as per usual, no one has moved to intervene.

Meanwhile, near the front steps, Quinn, Santana, and Brittany hold court among a gaggle of cheerleaders. In an uncharacteristic act of kindness, Coach Sylvester has granted them a respite from training for the first day of term, and they take advantage of the opportunity by scrutinising and labelling all of the fresh meat that wander past them.

Clearly, they've got nothing better to do.

"You remember where your locker is?"

Kate, dressed for the occasion in a pair of frayed denim shorts, a pretty blue-green blouse, and her faithful ballet flats, nods wordlessly. She's nervous behind her fringe, but she's already got plans to meet up with her friends, and Harry's sure she'll do just fine.

All the same, he walks with her towards the school building. Santana and Brittany greet them both as they pass, but Quinn keeps her distance, aware she isn't welcome. Harry may have moved on from her and her actions, but he's certainly not forgotten, and neither does he intend to.

"Look what the cat dragged in!" Santana purrs. She offers Harry a friendly punch to the arm, and then slips that same hand into his back pocket. Even as she (shamelessly) squeezes one of his arse cheeks, her grin is bright and genuine. "Where the hell have you been?"

Meanwhile, Brittany greets Kate with an enthusiastic hug. They rock themselves side to side in that way girls do, and Harry smirks to himself. Brittany's a lot more intelligent and cunning than anyone gives her credit for, and if Kate hasn't just been granted immunity from the usual suspects, Harry's not a Potter.

"Oh, you know, kicking ass, taking names, slaying dragons. How was your summer, Satan?"

"Not as good as yours," Santana answers, "I saw the photos. I can't believe you and Puck were in France together."

"Happy coincidence," Harry answers, nonchalant, "Turns out we were only a couple hours apart, so Mr Dubois let he and Abby stay with us for a week. Apparently, Puck was complaining about being bored."

Santana scoffs, simultaneously fond and scathing. "Typical."

Brittany and Kate separate, and Brittany curls herself under Harry's arm. Harry presses a friendly kiss to her cheek, tugs her ponytail affectionately, and asks over her summer. As he does, Santana compliments Kate's outfit, gives her a brief side hug, and enquires about the family's wellbeing. In doing so, she's just confirmed and cemented the fact that Kate is entirely off limits to anyone who would otherwise seek to tear her down, and Harry has no idea how he can possibly thank her, or Brittany, for the effort.

"It was good," Brittany answers, "We went to Quay West for a bit. I had fun."

"I'm glad," Harry squeezes her briefly, steps away from her, and sighs reluctantly. "I've got to drop my shit off at my locker. I'll catch you two later, yeah?"

"Duh," Santana answers, "I want all the details about this Marie Bernard chick. You two looked pretty cozy in the photos."

"Ugh, they were nauseating," Kate contributes.

Although he knows full well that it's simply delaying the inevitable, Harry drags his sister away before Santana and Brittany can gleefully descend upon her, and he offers her an unimpressed scowl as they traverse the hallways of McKinley High. Kate's unrepentant, of course, and she offers him a shrug, shameless.

Harry rolls his eyes. He can't be bothered being irritated. "All right, I'm heading upstairs. Remember, don't let anyone give you a hard time. People here are jackasses."

"I remember," Kate answers. She brushes her hair behind her ears, offers Harry a grin that's only a little bit forced, and adds, "I've got this."

"Yeah, you do," Harry agrees, "Good luck, Kit-Kat. Have fun."

She rolls her eyes. "Yeah, right. Get out of here, loser."

Harry jogs upstairs, sure Kate can handle herself, and traverses the second floor hallways until he reaches his locker. Brittany's and Puck's are only a stone's throw away from his, predictably, and as such, it's no surprise to find the latter already there, his headphones in his ears and jamming to Nirvana. He doesn't notice the quarterback's approach until Harry slams his palm against Alyson Prescott's locker, but his response is everything Harry hopes.

With a startled jolt and flailing limbs, it's only Harry's quick reflexes that spare him from a punch to the face. He's laughing, even as Puck promises retribution, and it's an entertaining start to what will hopefully be a monotonous, unremarkable year at William McKinley High.

"Good to see you, man," Harry says fondly, chuckling still. He shuffles over to his own locker, and empties out the contents of his backpack therein, "How was your weekend?"

Puck, preoccupied by the travesty that is his mohawk, shrugs. "It was fine. Just worked, really."

"And were you paid for your services?" Harry asks mildly. He's not exactly thrilled by Puck's endeavours in entrepreneurialism, but any concerns he has expressed have fallen upon deaf ears. It doesn't matter that Puck doesn't have a small business license, or the fact his 'extra-curricular' work is technically prostitution, and statutory rape besides. To him, cash and benefits is an irresistible lure, and Harry can only hope his friend is being as safe as possible.

"Duh," Puck answers, "I'm not about to offer my services for free."

"Of course," Harry drolly replies, "What was I thinking?"

There's an awkward silence wherein they both avoid eye contact, and Harry opts to focus his attention on the notebooks he unpacks from his bag. It's broken by the approach of Matt and Mike, the latter of whom has his arm slung over Hermione Granger's shoulders. They're still going strong after the summer, two of the brightest people Harry knows, and Harry envies them their relationship.

He doesn't have feelings for Hermione, mind you, but it's hard to imagine he'll ever find anything like it. Admittedly, a ridiculous concern given that he's only 16 years old, but Harry can't shake it for the life of him.

"Long time no see," Hermione greets him with a brief hug, "How was your summer?"

"It was good," Harry answers, "How was yours?"

"It was great," Hermione replies, "Italy is beautiful."

"That it is," Harry agrees.

The group of them chat for a time, about their respective holidays, about their expectations for the year ahead, and about the misery that was waking up that morning. It's a pleasant, carefree exchange, interspersed with greetings to friends and acquaintances who happen to pass them by, by observations regarding the wide-eyed, enthusiastic freshmen who wander the halls in search of their classes, and also by awkward, stilted exchanges between them and their teachers from the year prior.

Unsurprisingly, Hermione and Mike have no issues with the latter, brain boxes that they are, but Harry, Matt, and Puck aren't quite so fortunate. None of them have had any particularly notable clashes with their teachers (thus far), but among a cohort of exceptionally bright and talented peers, Harry, Matt, and Puck aren't academically extraordinary. As such, they haven't yet warranted the same amount of scrutiny as the likes of Hermione and Mike.

Moreover, neither Harry, Matt, or Puck are (or have been) particularly inclined towards developing lasting ties with the WMHS faculty, and thus, they've never tried to.

They probably never will.

In the din, the warning bell eventually blares loud and clear across the school grounds, and the five of them share grimaces, and reluctantly prepare to disperse.

"Back to the daily grind," Matt sighs, resigned.

Harry's smile is wry. "Is it Thanksgiving yet?"

Puck laughs, though there's not much mirth to the sound. "I fucking wish, man."

Mike rolls back his shoulders, cracks his neck, and rhetorically parries, "Don't we all?"

-!- -#-

As a sophomore - there's a certain familiarity with the WMHS system - an arrogant complacency, almost - that guarantees that they're entire cohort is already chomping at the bit to get the hell out of dodge. Freshman Year was new and exciting at one point, but the novelty hadn't lasted, and neither had it returned. Not for Harry, and not for almost everyone else, either.

The exception is the seniors, who proceed through the first day of term with an enduring sense of nostalgia. Among them, Cedric and Ethan, who greet Harry fondly, with handshakes and claps on the back all 'round. It's good to see them, and as they traverse one of WMHS' main thoroughfares between their respective classes, they three marvel over the absence of their graduated friends - Viktor and Fleur, Montague, and the like - discuss the possibility of a back to school party, and quiz each other regarding the events of their respective summers.

The encounter doesn't last - they each have places to be, after all - but Harry isn't particularly concerned. He'll catch up with them in time - Fred, George, and the others, as well - but until then, Pre-Calculus beckons.

"How was your morning?" Hermione queries.

Harry shrugs. "Same old shit, different day."

He drops into the available seat beside Puck, the row behind Mike and Hermione, and produces a blank notebook and the necessary stationery from his bag. He slumps back against his seat, then, bored and impatient, and already eager for his day to be over. Next to him, Puck dozes over his desk, his head in his arms, and Harry could laugh at the irony.

For once, Puck is actually living up to his legend, and sleeping through maths class.

"Are you going to join the Debating Team again?" Mike wonders. He and Hermione are angled in their seats, better to address Harry, but their teacher hasn't yet arrived, and therefore, no one cares.

Harry's not sure. He's still got his Karate and Judo classes two nights a week, and between his class work, football, his shifts at the Steam House, and the International O Levels to prepare for, he's not entirely enthused by the prospect of another commitment to worry about. As is, Harry's not sure when he's going to find the time to sleep, but he'll manage.

He hopes.

"I don't think I will," Harry admits, "Things are pretty crazy this year."

Neither Mike or Hermione appear surprised, but Hermione _does_ look disappointed, and Harry tries not to feel guilty. The Debating Team isn't the worst thing he's ever done, but he'd not missed it, either. Better to give up his place to someone who would appreciate it more, and who actually has time to commit to it properly.

Hermione sighs. "I guess we'll just have to make do without you."

"I think you'll do just fine," Harry answers, "Great, even."

Hermione shrugs, her smile wry. "Fingers crossed, anyway."

Their teacher arrives, and calls them to order with a sharp whistle across the room. Puck jolts upright at the sound, people laugh, and Mr Vaughn is not impressed.

"Thank you for joining us in the land of the living, Puckerman," Vaughn says drolly, "My class wasn't quite the same without your inspiring presence."

"I do what I can, teach," Puck answers irreverently.

Mr Vaughn doesn't roll his eyes, but it's a near thing. "One day, I'll thank you for your sacrifice. For now, welcome to Honours Pre-Calculus…"

-!- -#-

In a meeting during his lunch break, Harry is appointed the quarterback of WMHS' varsity football team.

It's a new thing, having a Varsity, a Junior Varsity, and a Freshman team, but given the disparity in ages, sizes, and general athleticism, it's perhaps been a long time coming for McKinley High.

Admittedly, Harry's surprised that he, himself, has been given a place on the varsity team, but as his new coach points out, he's technically old enough to be a junior. That aside, he's also one of two QB's with seniority - Finn Hudson being the other - and at varsity level, the game is as much about technique and strategy as it is strength and endurance, and quite frankly, Finn Hudson doesn't have much going for him beyond his height and strong throwing arm.

But then, Harry's pretty sure he's not the best judge of character (or skill) where Hudson is concerned. Too much bad blood, and all.

In any case, to the coaching staff, Harry's placement is a no-brainer, and given the opportunity in question, Harry's not about to argue with them.

"I hope I won't let you down, Coach," Harry says, and shakes her offered hand. Her name is Shannon Beiste, she's taller than he is, and Coach Tanaka speaks highly of her.

"Just do your best," Coach Beiste answers, "That's all I ask of all my kids."

He offers her a lazy salute. "Aye aye, Ma'am."

She dismisses him with a laugh, and Harry retreats from her office with a grin on his face.

He can't shake it for the life of him.

 **Author's Note:** I know I said November, but I'm too excited. Plus, I'm on a mission to increase my average word count per story, but never mind that… Hope you guys are looking forward to this. Until next time, -t.


	55. Part 2: Chapter 2: Send Me On My Way

**Welcome to the Jungle**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter, or Glee. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Part Two: Sixteen**

 **Chapter Two: Send Me On My Way**

The Steam House is one of those places with a high rate of employee turnover. It's not a bad place to work, per se, but the employees in question are usually at or near transitional points in their lives; high school students, college students, young men and women perpetually eager to move on to bigger and better things.

Knowing this, Harry isn't surprised when Penelope and Gemma resign within days of each other. It's a shame, because they'd developed a good rapport over the last 12 months, but it's the way of things that people come and go, and Harry knows better than to let them depart on a sour note.

He and Kate throw a farewell party instead, a cookout in his parents' backyard, all Steam House employees welcome, and most, at least, make an appearance. Penelope and Gemma are the guests of honour, of course, happy to answer any and all questions regarding their plans for the future, and in some respects, it's bittersweet.

The last 12 months had been tumultuous, to say the least, but through it all, the Steam House had remained reliably, unchangingly consistent, but change isn't always terrible. The new team leaders in their midst, Roger, Herbert, Heidi and Duncan are recent WMHS graduates, had been Steam House team members the year prior, are familiar faces to the rest of them. As such, it won't be difficult to work with them in this new capacity, just different, and that's okay. It will just take some getting used to, but Harry can adapt.

He always has.

"I'm happy for them, really," Hermione says, swirling her punch around in her plastic cup. It's been spiked, predictably, but Hermione has no interest in getting drunk. Ron, beside her, is already three sheets to the wind. "But wow, it'll be weird without them around."

Harry shrugs, "I'm sure we'll manage."

Hermione hums her agreement, sips her cup, and nudges him with her elbow. "You throw a good party, you know?"

Harry pulls a face, and answers dubiously, "If you say so."

The party isn't anything particularly crazy. Neither Harry nor Kate have any interest in cleaning up after something like that, and moreover, since their mother actually owns and operates the Steam House, rumour of anything particularly wild is bound to get back to her. As is, both of their parents are aware of their plans for a reasonably tame, low-key gathering in the backyard. They've vacated the premises, too, as not to 'cramp their style', but they're only out to dinner and a movie, and only a phone call away in the event of trouble.

"I do say so," Hermione grins at him. She turns her gaze to the yard, where Kate's entertaining their guests with an impromptu show, her voice clear and resonant across the yard. She's using his guitar, and she banters with their coworkers about it, which inevitably leads to questions about whether he can play, and soon thereafter, entreaties for him to do so. Hermione glances at him, smiling. "Well?"

Harry is reluctant, but his friends are persistent, and thus he relents with a sigh. Kate smirks at him when he does so, hands over his guitar without hesitation, and drops into the seat he's just vacated.

"Break a leg, bro."

"Don't call me bro."

Kate sticks out her tongue, Harry gives her the finger, and approaches the ring of chairs wherein Gemma and Penelope hold court. He takes Kate's vacated seat, adjusts the tuning on his guitar, and offers his guests a brief, sheepish grin.

"So, I haven't really worked on anything in particular for tonight, so you'll have to take some old stuff, some impromptu stuff, so on and so on. I'd also like to add a disclaimer that Kate's a far better singer than I am, so yeah, that's about it, really, so here goes…"

He plays for a while, covers of John Mayer and Matt Nathanson, and a variety of other artists in his repertoire. he finishes off, however, with a cover of Crowded House's 'Don't Dream It's Over'. His audience sings along to the chorus, absurdly emotional as they do so, and by the time the song comes to a close, Penelope and Gemma are both laughing and crying.

"You don't give yourself enough credit," Hermione informs him later, "You're really quite good."

"Thanks," Harry answers.

"You ever thought about, I don't know, doing something with it?"

"Not really, no," Harry denies, "That's always been Kate's thing."

Harry's future has always been pretty straightforward: University, Peverell Industries, inheritance of the Potter Estate when the time comes. More recently, he's seriously considered service in the army at some point along the way - before university, maybe after - and beyond perhaps some time in politics, he's never really thought of much else for himself.

Hermione hums her acknowledgement. "She mentioned she signed up for the Glee Club?"

"Yeah," Harry confirms, "She's pretty excited about it."

Kate has also signed up for the Drama Club, and the WMHS marching band, and Harry's spent the last two weeks reminding everyone that she's his sister, and therefore off limits as far as slushie facials and general bullying are concerned. Santana and Brittany have helped, too, threatening retribution to anyone who even thinks about it, and in them, Harry's fairly certain he's found friends for life.

"Brave," Hermione comments.

Harry grunts his acknowledgement. He's not sure he agrees with her, but he's not going to start an argument over it. He changes the subject instead, talking about the classes they share, about Hermione's plans for the school newspaper, about the party at Ethan Summerby's they'd both attended the night before.

As they chat, the night continues on, the party draws to a close, and his parents arrive home in time to see Gemma and Penelope sandwich Harry into a three-way hug, buzzed and grateful, and embarrassingly sentimental.

"You've got to keep us posted," Penelope insists, "Let us know what's going on in your life."

"Your drama keeps things interesting," Gemma contributes.

"I'm glad my suffering kept you entertained," Harry answers, tone droll.

Gemma's completely unapologetic. "You know it."

After another round of hugs, Gemma and Penelope pile into Gemma's boyfriend's car. They wave as he pulls away from the curb, Harry returns it with a fond grin, and then turns away with an inaudible sigh. It's the last glimpse he'll see of them… At least for a while.

"It was a good night," Hermione says, her eyes on her phone, "Thank you for having us."

"You're always welcome," Harry answers. He shoves his hands in his pockets as Kate joins them, and they chat idly about their respective plans the following day. Kate's got shopping plans with her friends, and then she's headed to Colin's afterwards. Hermione's got a study date with Mike, and Harry's got a 7 - 3 shift at work. They commiserate, Harry jokes about his thrilling single life, and they tease him about a number of classmates who are supposedly interested in him until Hermione's father arrives to take her home.

"I'll see you on Monday," Hermione says, and graces him with another one of her bone-crushing hugs.

"Naturally," Harry concurs, "Thanks for coming today."

"It was my pleasure."

Hermione leaves after a brief exchange with Kate, and the two siblings retreat inside, and to the parents awaiting them there. They're quizzed, predictably, about the get together, and whether or not there were any disasters, but soon they're released to clean up the yard, and both go with weary, reluctant sighs.

"Tonight was fun," Kate says, content, even as she mechanically throws solo cups into a garbage bag, "We should make it a regular thing."

"Maybe," Harry replies. He's packing away all of the leftovers, and his dad expects him to clean the grill, and Harry sort of regrets that he can't do it all tomorrow, "Don't think Mum and Dad would be up for that, though."

Kate purses her lips, but concedes the point with a nod. "It'd be nice, though."

"Yeah," Harry agrees, "It would."

It's late by the time the yard has been cleared of any remaining detritus from the party, and Harry throws the last of the garbage bags into the trash with a grateful sigh. He returns inside when he's done, locks all the doors and resets the alarm, and then makes his way downstairs, to the shower awaiting him there, and straight to his bed directly after he's done. He reflects on the party briefly, but he's asleep between one thought and the next, and before Harry knows it, it's morning, his alarm is shrill in his ears, and another shift at the Steam House awaits.

As exhausted as Harry feels, it's going to be a long day.

-!- -#-

It's mid-morning, and Ron is absurdly, hilariously hungover. A few others are, too, but mostly everyone's just tired, in good spirits, and reluctant for the weekend to be over. Heidi's team leader today, a bit out of her depth and winging it as she goes along, but no one has any issues with her - or her taste in music - and all things considered, the shift is going well.

Harry's waiting tables, chatting genially with a couple of Steam House regulars when Katie walks in, accompanied by a guy who is vaguely familiar, but whom Harry doesn't know at first glance.

It's Ron who puts a name to the face: Oliver Wood, WMHS alum, Class of 2008, and the former assistant coach of the WMHS soccer teams. He's 20, apparently studying Physiotherapy at Lima's OSU campus, and he and Katie are looking very cozy at the counter.

"Is that legal?" Harry asks. Ron shrugs, clueless but nonplused, and Harry wonders about his friends, and their interest in older men and women.

"The age of consent in Ohio is 16," Heidi interjects. She's taking a year off to save up some money, but she intends to become a lawyer.

"That's something, I suppose," Harry acknowledges. Katie is 17 in October.

"Weird though," Ron opines, "But I guess he's not working at WMHS anymore, so…"

"Isn't he?"

Ron shakes his head. "Nah, decided to focus on school, I guess. Davies is taking his place."

"Guess you'll be seeing a lot of him, then," Harry says.

Roger is one of the Steam House's new team leaders. He'd graduated in the summer, alongside Viktor and Fleur, but Harry hadn't had much of an opportunity to get to know him over the last school year. He'd started working at the Steam House over the winter, but due to conflicting schedules, they'd shared very few shifts until the summer. That said, although Harry doesn't know him well enough to consider him a friend, they're at least friendly acquaintances at this point.

"You too, if you're joining the team," Ron reminds him.

Harry grunts his acknowledgement. "Guess so."

They return to their work before Heidi feels obliged to remind them to do so, and Harry's able to relax enough to banter lightly with Katie as he serves she and her companion's brunch. She introduces him to Oliver, who shakes his hand and informs Harry that Katie apparently speaks highly of him, and Harry returns to the kitchen with a bemused grin and the impression that if nothing else, Oliver Wood is at least a nice guy.

"Are you going to ask her about it?" Ron asks.

"No," Harry answers, "It's none of my business, really."

Ron accepts Harry's response without question, and between serving food and clearing tables, they chat about other things. Ron's joined the Chess Club, and apparently, his house is currently World War III. His mother doesn't approve of his sister, Ginny's, choice to join the Cross Country team, doesn't approve of Fred's or George's choices to spend a year travelling before college, and is not at all pleased by the fact that Bill - who is Ron's eldest brother - has accepted a job offer based out of Hong Kong.

It turns out, Bill's a commercial pilot, and the opportunity from Cafe Pacific was one he could not ignore.

"Do you need a place to crash for a while?" Harry asks.

"Thanks, but I'll be okay," Ron shrugs, and his smile is wry, "I'm really good at avoiding notice."

Harry nods his acquiescence, but his expression is dubious. "The offer is open, if you change your mind."

Ron's smile is sincere. "Thanks, Harry. I'll remember that."

The rest of Harry's shift passes uneventfully. Ron clocks out at midday, and takes off with plans to meet up with Lavender.

"All of my friends are in relationships," Harry informs Natalie. She's a senior, and one of his coworkers, and the pat she gives his cheek is dripping with condescension.

"You poor baby."

He mock scowls. "Screw you."

She laughs. "In all seriousness though, don't feel like you, I don't know, need to be in a relationship or whatever. Just… Have fun, you know? Go to parties, hook up with girls, dance with whoever you want. Don't force a relationship if the feelings aren't there, okay? Trust me, you'll regret it forever."

Harry sighs. "I know. It just… It sucks being the single one, you know? Especially after all the crap last year."

Natalie commiserates. "I know it does, but it won't be forever. You'll find someone. You're too cute not to."

"Harry's expression is deadpan, "Thanks."

Natalie winks, and she is entirely unapologetic. "No problem."

He thinks of Marie, of the sun-drenched days and moonlit nights they'd spent together in Saint Raphaël. They'd both changed immensely in the year since he'd last seen her, but she was still his friend, and their fling during the summer hadn't lasted long enough.

It hadn't been love, though. They'd parted on good terms, a milestone or two lighter, but without any fanfare. She's since returned to her life in Nice, Harry to his own life in Lima, and perhaps things might be different if they'd both stayed in Chicago, but there's no use dwelling on thoughts like that.

Instead, Harry shakes his head, returns to his work, and eagerly awaits the end of his shift.

It can't arrive soon enough.


	56. Part 2: Chapter 3: Never Say Never

**Wellcome to the Jungle**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter, or Glee. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Part Two: Sixteen**

 **Chapter Three: Never Say Never**

When Harry said most of his friends were in relationships, he was mostly exaggerating. Matt and Santana are no longer whatever they are, and Brittany hasn't started anything (official) with anyone since her thing with Mike had come to an end the year prior.

Puck and Santana are both playing the field, avoiding commitment and enjoying themselves, and honestly, it seems like there's some sort of unspoken competition going on between them. Harry's not exactly sure, but at the end of the day, it's none of his business, and he's certainly not about to ask.

Meanwhile, Mike and Hermione, and Ron and Lavender, have been together for a while now, and Frankie's still got some sort of casual thing going on with Lauren Zizes. Dean and Seamus are both unattached though, and neither of them have any intentions of actively pursuing anyone. Not that Harry knows of, anyway.

All of that said, it sometimes feels like he's surrounded by relationships, and Harry finds himself regularly gravitating towards his single friends, disinclined to being a third wheel, and also to answering the frequent questions of whether or not there's someone he is interested in, so forth and so forth.

Quite frankly, other then Harry's lingering - and entirely insubstantial - infatuation with Daphne Greengrass, there isn't. He finds many of his classmates attractive, of course - he's 16 years old, and girls are beautiful - but Harry has no interest in pursuing something - beyond a single night at a party, anyway - based on physical attraction alone.

Harry won't ever admit that, of course. He'll never hear the end of it, otherwise.

"You know Ginny's interested in you, right?" Kate asks him one day. It's the third week of term, and Kate's spent the last five minutes rambling about the Glee Club. Her non sequitur leaves him flatfooted.

"Ginny? Ginny Weasley?"

Ginny Weasley is Ron's younger sister. She's also a friend of Kate's, and their encounters have been few and far between.

"Yes, Ginny Weasley, doofus," Kate rolls her eyes, "How many girls named Ginny do you know?"

Harry frowns. "I swear I've had, like, three conversations with her. Why…?"

Kate shrugs. "She thinks your cute, I guess. God knows why, with that face, but I guess there's no accounting for taste."

"Screw you too," Harry answers, unfazed, "Didn't she just turn 14?"

Kate gives a confirming nod. "In August."

"Right, then," Harry determines, "It's not going to happen. Ever."

Kate frowns, but she doesn't seem particularly put out. More perplexed than anything. "Why not?"

"Because she's your friend, and my friend's sister. That's just weird. Also, she's 14, and yeah, no thanks. Not interested."

"Yes, well, I'm not going to tell her that," Kate informs him.

Harry rolls his eyes. He's not sure why she told _him_. He's pretty sure he could have gone his whole life without knowing one of his sister's friends has a thing for him. "Whatever."

Harry pulls into the WMHS parking lot before Kate can start babbling about the Glee Club once more, and pulls into a space beside Fred and George Weasley's beat up Anglia. They're loitering behind it, accompanied by Angelina, Alicia, Lee, Katie, and Leanne, and Harry spares a moment to be grateful their sister hasn't lingered, too.

Given Kate's revelations, Harry can't trust he won't act like an arse around her, and he'd rather avoid any opportunity in which he'd find out, either way.

"I'm meeting Colin in the A/V room," Kate informs him, "I'll see you later."

"Sure," Harry answers, approaching his friends, "Have a nice day."

"You too," Kate calls behind her, already on her way. Harry doesn't watch her go.

"Morning," Alicia greets him. She's wearing her glasses today, square-rimmed frames that flatter her face. She's also perched on the boot of the twins' car, George comfortable between her knees, her arms slung lazily over his shoulders. He has his back to her, his eyes on his phone, but he glances up as Harry approaches, and offers him a lazy grin.

"What's up, QB?"

"Not much," Harry replies. He greets his friends with the obligatory hugs and/or fist bumps, and they draw Harry into their discussion regarding their plans, post commencement.

Fred, George, Angelina, Alicia, and Lee have plans to backpack, possibly work, across Europe for a year, maybe elsewhere if the opportunity and funds arise. They're all saving up, working their arses off between college applications and what have you, and despite parental hesitations - or disapproval, in the twins' case - they're each extremely excited for it.

Leanne and Katie, meanwhile, are swamped under preparations for their SAT's in January. They're also already under a lot of pressure to determine a shortlist of colleges to apply for, and the consolation of two years - until their own commencement - is a poor one.

"Enjoy this year," Leanne says to Harry, tone solemn, "You'll miss it when it's gone."

Harry doesn't roll his eyes, but it's a near thing. "Sure. I'll do my best."

"You think I'm ridiculous now," Leanne says, "But you'll see, it'll be me having the last laugh."

"All right, drama queen," Katie links her arm through Leanne's, "Leave the poor guy alone. I've got to visit my locker. You're coming with me."

Leanne doesn't protest, and they make their way to the front doors with promises to catch up later. Harry watches them go, rueful, and returns to his car to collect his backpack.

The car isn't anything extraordinary: a secondhand Camry with just enough leg room and a temperamental radio, but as far as first cars go, Harry can't complain.

It also helps that he's been promised something better if the Camry survives until his own graduation ceremony, but Harry tries not to think about it, for a number of reasons.

"I'm going to head inside, too," he informs the seniors, still lingering.

"Sure," Lee acknowledges, "Don't slip on the slush."

Harry grimaces. "I won't. Catch you guys later."

"Smell you later, QB," Fred replies.

Harry wanders off with a sigh, resigned to another monotonous day at McKinley.

Surprisingly though, it doesn't completely go the way he expects.

-!- -#-

Over the school's PA system, the three football teams are called into the gymnasium. It's lunch time, and no one seems to have a clue about what's going on, but they do as they're told, and gather in a group in front of their coaches. Mr Schuester, the pushover Spanish teacher accompanies them, and he wears an open, optimistic smile on his face.

"Mr Schuester is going to talk to you," Coach Tanaka informs them, "If you don't listen, you do laps. If you mouth off, you do laps. Got it? They're all yours, Will."

Mr Schuester steps forward. He looks kind of nervous, and Harry glances at his friends, skeptical. What possible reason could he have to speak to them?

"Thanks, Ken. Hey, guys, how you doing? Uh, I think I recognise some of you from Spanish class, but, uh, I'm here today to talk to you about something different. Music. Glee Club needs guys."

There's a moment of stunned silence where it seems the gathered football players comprehend that, no, they'd not heard Mr Schuester wrong, and a moment later, they all relax. Thee Glee Club isn't something they need to worry about - unlike grades or the like - and consequently, they don't need to take this meeting seriously. Not when it's just a recruitment pitch that, likely, none of them are interested in earring.

"I sing," Puck informs Mr Schue.

Harry, Mike, and Matt glance between themselves, dubious. They know Puck can sing, of course - it's not something he makes any particular effort to hide from them - but because Puck's determined to hold onto his 'badass' reputation, it's not something he advertises in school. Moreover, Puck hasn't shown any interest in the Glee club whatsoever. In fact, he's taken great pains to express his disdain for show choir, and neither of them expect Puck's experienced a sudden change in heart in the last half hour.

They're thoughts are proven correct when Puck's demonstration of his musical talent involves a truly impressive fart.

Harry shakes his head, rueful, and laughing despite himself, and walks out with Mike and Matt when they're all quickly dismissed. Coach Tanaka barks at Puck to stay behind, but Puck is entirely unapologetic, and Harry silently wishes his friend the best of luck.

"How is Kate liking the Glee Club?" Matt queries.

Harry shrugs. "She hasn't quit, so I guess she likes it well enough."

"Would you sign up?" Mike wonders.

"I'd need a really good incentive," Harry answers honestly.

Harry would have to be willing to cut back his hours at the Steam House, because he wouldn't have the time, otherwise. As is, Harry doesn't have much cause to be interested in signing up and/or auditioning, but he's not necessarily _opposed_ to the idea.

He's just… Not too invested in it, either.

"Like what?"

Harry shrugs. "No idea. I'll let you know if one comes along, though."

Matt nods, preoccupied. He's looking at Tiana Johnson, laughing with a group of her friends, and Mike and Harry share a glance, humoured.

"You going to go talk to her, dude?" Mike wonders.

"Nah," Matt shakes his head, and shoves his hands in his pockets, "She's busy."

Mike doesn't press him. "Suit yourself, man."

They split in order to head to their respective lockers, and to their classes from there, and Harry meanders his way to Visual Art with his hands shoved into the pockets of his letterman jacket. Dean Thomas joins him on the way, having switched electives at the start of the year, and they'd chat idly about school, about the impromptu football meeting, about the plans for a pick-up game of soccer on Saturday afternoon that Harry's invited to,, if he's interested.

"Sounds good," Harry acknowledges, "I finish work at 12, so I'll be there."

"We'll probably head over to Seamus' afterwards," Dean informs him, "He's stocked up."

Harry nods, "Sounds good. How much does he want?"

"10 dollars each."

"Cheap," Harry comments.

Dean shrugs. "Not complaining."

They reach their classroom, settle at the table Harry shares with Brittany, and speak no further regarding their Saturday plans. Brittany regales them with tales of her misadventures with her cat, Lord Tubbington instead, and Harry glances at Daphne Greengrass too often to be casual, and the warning bell blares shrill in their ears. Their teacher calls them to order, the class falls silent, and the rest of Harry's day can't end soon enough.


	57. Part 2: Chapter 4: Just Give Me A Reason

**Welcome to the Jungle**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter, or Glee. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Chapter Four: Just Give Me A Reason**

"Nominations for the Homecoming Court are open," Santana announces. She drops into the empty seat beside Harry, helps herself to his fries, and adds, "You're one of the favourites to be voted Homecoming King, you know?"

Harry is nonplused. He'd been thinking about the football game later that night - the first of the season, and his first without his friends - and Santana's declaration is jarring. "Why?"

"You're hot, you're QB, you're not a jackass. Who else would it be? Hudson?" Santana scoffs at the thought. "Not fucking likely."

Harry shrugs, nonchalant. "I haven't thought about it."

"Maybe you should. You'll need a date."

Homecoming isn't until the end of October. It's the beginning of September, at present, and the dance isn't exactly high on his priority list. All the same…

"You offering, Satan?"

"Sure, why not," Santana shrugs, but then she looks at him, eyes narrowed, "You'd better impress me though, Potter. No half-assed bullshit because we're not doing the horizontal tango, you got me?"

Harry scoffs. "Give me some credit, Lopez."

Santana snakes an arm around his shoulders, leans over, and presses a smacking kiss against his cheek. "I'm going to go tell Brit somewhere Fabray can hear."

Harry nods his acknowledgement, and answers, "Have fun."

Harry hadn't noticed it, too rapt up in his own hurt, and too determine to avoid Quinn Fabray and everything to do with her, besides, but somewhere over the last year, Santana and Quinn's friendship had chilled to glacial proportions. They're civil, because the cheerleading team demands peaceful coexistence, if nothing else, but the rest of their interactions involves veiled (and not so veiled) insults, glares, and a hostility so thick it could probably be cut with a knife.

Santana flounces off with a grin, somehow simultaneously cheerful and malicious, and Harry returns to his lunch with an inaudible sigh. His teammates converse around him, some animated, loud, and cheerful, others quiet, thoughtful, and distracted. They're all nervous though, cognisant of the pressure and expectation to succeed, but determined not to show it. Not now, and maybe not ever.

Harry picks listlessly at his meal, sighs, and pushes himself to his feet. "I'm going for a walk. Get some fresh air before the pep rally."

"All right, dude," Morgan, their captain, acknowledges, "See you later."

Harry wanders through the hallways of WMHS, aimless, and eventually finds himself near the choir room. He can hear Kate inside, chatting with a few others Harry can't place, and Harry approaches on quiet steps, curious, and in want of distraction.

Inside, Kate is seated on one of the risers, accompanied by the rest of Mr Schuester's Glee Club. Kurt Hummel, Rachel Berry, and Mercedes Jones are among them, but the other two are freshman, and they watch him warily.

They're not hostile, at least. They have learned not to trust the people clad in letterman jackets and/or football jerseys, but Harry's not participated in the slushie facials and/or general harassment, so they are on guard, but they're willing to give him a chance.

In their place, Harry's not sure he'd be so magnanimous.

"Hey," Kate greets him absently. Most of her focus is on the songbook in front of her, "What do you want?"

Harry shrugs. "Nothing. Just walking around, heard you in hear. What are you doing?"

"We're supposed to be brainstorming ways to recruit new members," Kate explains, "Any ideas?"

"None." Harry drops into the empty space beside his sister, leans over to study the music in front of her, and grimaces. "Maybe you can start with performing songs from this decade, though?"

None of the sophomores seem particularly surprised to see Kate and Harry interact, but the two freshmen watch with wide eyes, speechless but dumbfounded.

"Mr Schuester won't let us," Kurt Hummel interjects, a haughty sneer on his face. Harry can't tell if it's directed at him, or at the absent Mr Schuester, but he's unruffled, either way. "We've asked. Repeatedly."

"That's shit."

Kate hums her agreement. "Tell us something we don't know. Are you _sure_ you're not interested in joining us?"

"You sing?" Hummel wonders.

"He can dance, too," Kate confirms.

"I'd need a really good incentive," Harry reminds her, "I've told you this."

It's not that Harry isn't opposed to performing. He just… Doesn't love it. Not like Kate. As such, the Glee Club alone isn't worth the negative attention he'd receive from the narrow-minded idiots on his football team, on the hockey team, among the cheerleaders.

But if there was a good reason…

Kate doesn't acknowledge him right away. She stares into space instead, her gaze narrowed in thought, before she asks, "Do you still have that thing for that girl in your Art Class?"

Harry flushes, and carefully avoids eye contact with anyone else in the room. "How the hell do you know about that?"

Kate is nonchalant. "Brit told me. She pointed her out, too. You know she's in the school's band, right? She plays the bass guitar."

Harry rolls his eyes. "Believe it or not, I'm not stalking her, so no, I didn't know that, but why is it important?"

"They help us with our performances. Sometimes we have to adjust the instrumentals, so they come to our Thursday rehearsals. We bribe them with baked goods. It'd be an opportunity to talk to her outside of class…?"

Harry squints at her, reluctantly impressed. "You're good."

Kate preens, and asks hopefully, "So you'll join?"

"I'll think about it." The warning bell rings then, loud and shrill, and Harry steps off the riser with a sigh. He's nervous for the afternoon and evening ahead, and Kate can see right through him. "I'd better go, though."

His sister offers him an encouraging smile. "You've got this."

God, he hopes so.

-!- -#-

They win the game. Between Coach Beiste's intensive training regime, her game plans, and the skill and competence of McKinley High's new varsity team, the win is unequivocal. It's a rush, too, gratifying after a year on a losing team, and Harry leaves the locker room with a smile he can't shake, revelling in their win, and optimistic for the rest of the season.

"Congratulations, Harry," James says, claps him on the back, and offers him an unfettered grin. The man has no interest in American Football beyond Harry's games, but he's never failed to encourage and support Harry, has regularly suffered the noise and the crowds at his games to do so, and with the perspective gained from Marlene's death, Harry's not sure he's ever appreciated the effort more.

"Thanks, Dad," Harry replies. Lily tugs him into a hug, offering similar sentiments, and Harry returns the embrace with a laugh, heedless of the peers who surround him. "I'm starving. Where's Kate?"

"I'm here," Kate arrives, looking a little frazzled, "I was just saying bye to Colin. Are we going?"

"We're going," James confirms, "Are you getting a lift with your brother?"

Kate looks at Harry, expectant, and Harry shrugs in turn. They're going to the same place, before Harry splits for the afterparty, and he can't really care less.

"i'll go with Harry," she decides.

"We'll meet you at Marco's, then."

Marco's is a small restaurant not far from the steam house. It's Italian, authentically so, run and owned by an immigrant couple his parents have befriended over the last year or so. It's pricier than most of his classmates can afford, so it's not exactly a hotspot for Lima's restless youth, but the food's fantastic, and his parents are buying, so Harry doesn't complain.

"Are you going to this party, too?" James asks Kate.

"Yeah," Kate confirms, "I'm meeting the girls there. It should be good."

"And you'll watch out for your sister, won't you?" James asks Harry, though it's not much of a question.

Harry doesn't even think about refusing. Not just because his father's intimidating when he wants to be, but also because he remembers perfectly well what could have happened to Brittany the year prior. There have been incidents since, as well, unconfirmed rumours and the like, and Harry's not particularly overprotective of his sister, but he'll certainly beat the crap out of anyone who thinks to intentionally hurt her. "Of course."

Kate rolls her eyes, unimpressed. "I can take care of myself."

"Nevertheless," Lily opines, "You're younger than a lot of the people there, and not everyone has been raised to respect women."

"Or alcohol," James contributes, "Humour us, Katherine."

Kate huffs, but acquiesces without further protest, and the rest of their meal passes uneventfully. Kate and Harry are quizzed about school and work, Harry about the game, both of them about their continuing martial arts classes. Kate's quizzed about her dance and music lessons, about the Glee Club, and the Drama Club, and the friends in the school band she'd made before she'd quit to focus on Glee and Drama. She's teased about Colin, Harry's playfully interrogated about his own love life, and although the dinner is pleasant, both siblings are relieved when it's over.

"Take care of yourselves, and look out for each other," Lily says. She hugs Kate, and frets over her hair, and clothes, and lipgloss.

"Give us a call if you need anything," James adds, "I don't care what time it is."

"Yeah, okay," Kate rolls her eyes, impatient, "We'll be fine. Let's go, Harry."

"Thanks for dinner," Harry rolls his own eyes at his sister's back, and calls over his shoulder, "Goodnight. See you tomorrow."

They reach his car, and pile inside. Kate fusses with the radio, Harry lets his friends know he's on his way, and he pulls out of the lot as Kate plays Hellogoodbye from his speakers.

"What's the rush?" He wonders.

"I'm meeting up with Colin," Kate explains, "We have plans."

"I don't want to know."

"I wasn't going to tell you."

He grimaces at her, unimpressed, because her reluctance to do so is indication enough of her plans. Kate is generally an open book; there are few reasons why she'd not elaborate. He sighs though, unwilling to talk about it, and requests, "Just let me know when you're leaving the party, okay? So I don't have to go looking for you."

""Yeah, yeah, okay, you're as bad as Mum and Dad."

Harry doesn't think so. He's just not really interested in negotiating his way through a mass of his drunken, uninhibited classmates if he doesn't have to. His request, therefore, is mostly pragmatism, and only a little bit protective.

Harry's not about to admit as much, though.


	58. Part 2: Chapter 5: Drunk

**Welcome to the Jungle**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter, or Glee. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Part Two: Sixteen**

 **Chapter Five: Drunk**

When Harry and Kate arrive at the party, Harry is dragged into the kitchen by his teammates, and handed a celebratory shot of tequila. He downs it quickly, accepts the accompanying congratulations, back thumps, and the bottle of beer, and then wanders off in search of his friends.

He finds them on the back porch, Mike, Matt, and Puck, Santana and Brittany. Hermione's there too, curled up against Mike's side, nursing a solo cup of beer. Finn and Quinn are as well, sober and somehow exuding a sense of superiority because of it. Harry's tempted to turn around, to walk away, find some of his other friends instead, because he can't be bothered with this shit.

Really, he can't.

Unfortunately, Santana spots him before he can take his leave, and Harry resigns himself to his fate.

"The man of the fucking hour," she greets him with an unapologetic kiss, slow, and lingering, and probably more sensual than really warrants for a pair who, despite everything, are only friends, "Congratulations, QB. You kicked ass."

"Thanks, Santana," he acknowledges, hugs her fondly, and then settles himself on the chair she'd vacated. She scoffs at him, unimpressed, and makes herself comfortable in his lap. They both fidget to get comfortable, bickering all the while, and heedless of the observation of their friends.

They eventually relax, settle in to ignore Quinn and Finn, and to shoot the breeze with the others gathered with them. It's pleasant, interspersed with visits from friends, with drunken cheerleaders content to drape themselves over Puck and Matt. Harry and Kate text intermittently; until she informs him she's left, anyway. At that point, Harry is dragged into a game of beer pong with Matt, and for a variety of reasons, checking on his little sister is more or less the last thing he wants to do.

Puck, meanwhile, has disappeared upstairs with one of the senior cheerleaders, Mike and Hermione to locations unknown, and Finn and Quinn to revel in their superiority with people who actually give a shit. It's just the four of them, therefore - Santana, Brittany, Matt, and Harry himself - getting increasingly trashed in their host's basement turned rumpus room.

"Where's Kate, anyway?" Santana asks at one point. Her gaze is unfocused, and they've all had too much to drink. Harry knows it in that distant, abstract sort of way, but he doesn't make any move to cut them off. He drains what will be his last beer though, and helps himself to one of the full bottles of water on the coffee table. He's got work in the morning.

"With Colin," Harry explains. He slumps further into the couch, and Brittany curls up beside him. She cuddles with a bottle of vodka, "I don't want to think about it. Don't make me think about it."

Santana cackles unapologetically, leant against his legs. Matt's head is in her lap, and he looks on the verge of passing out. "Wanky! Good for her."

"Screw you, Lopez." Harry grimaces at his friend, combs his hands through Brittany's blonde hair, and is then entirely unsurprised to find she's fallen asleep against him. In another few minutes, Matt's out as well, snoring in Santana's lap,

"Fuck, I love these guys," Santana says fondly. She tilts her head back to look at him, "Don't you? They're the best. Them and Chang, and you, and even Granger. Even if she _is_ fucking uptight sometimes. Don't you think so, QB?"

"Sure, San," Harry indulges her, "We're all the best."

"And hot as fuck," Santana adds, "Even Brit and Granger. I'd do them."

"I think Mike would have something to say about that," Harry says mildly. The mental image is glorious, though.

"Mike can get fucked, he and Brit weren't ever serious."

Harry shrugs, and concedes, "Who am I to get between three beautiful women?"

As Harry drains a second bottle of water, Santana hums her agreement. Her eyes are closed. "Damn right."

Although not before a third bottle of water for Harry, they fall asleep there, with Brittany and Matt, though Harry can't remember when, exactly, his day had finally caught up to him. Rather, the next thing he knows, it's morning, and Kate's calling him to come pick her up from Colin's. She wants to go home to freshen up before work.

With his entire body aching from the game yesterday, or perhaps the hangover, Harry wants to go home, too.

-!- -#-

The trip home is quiet. Kate's curled up in the passenger seat, eyes on the scenery passing them by. Harry's hungover, nursing a headache, yet another bottle of water, and the unshakeable paranoia that he'll be pulled over by the police, and neither of them are up for much conversation. Kate's been crying though, her eyes red-rimmed and bloodshot, and Harry feels he needs to say something. He's just not sure what.

He reaches their house before he figures it out, and as Kate approaches the front door ahead of him, Harry's opportunity to say something at all vanishes like smoke in the wind.

Inside the house, Harry and Kate avoid their parents' scrutiny with the excuse of freshening up before work, and Harry retreats downstairs to do just that. The shower is only marginally rejuvenating, but breakfast and coffee help, and he and Kate are out the door half an hour after they'd gotten there.

-!- -#-

At work, Harry's not the only one nursing a hangover. Ron's in far worse shape, actually, with the explanation that after breaking up with Lavender, he, Fred, and George had gotten completely trashed at Lee Jordan's place.

"You broke up with Lavender?" Hermione asks. Harry's glad he's not the only one surprised.

"Yeah," Ron confirms, shrugs half-heartedly, and smiles feebly, "Apparently I don't spend enough time with her."

Ron's on the Chess and Cross Country teams, he works a couple of afternoons a week, and most weekends, and he dedicates a fair bit of time to his schoolwork. He's not part of the AP or Honours programs, but he's maintained a B+/A- average since the start of freshman year, and with hopes for at least a partial scholarship to college, he's determined to keep it.

Apparently, Lavender Brown couldn't appreciate that sort of determination.

"That's nonsense," Hermione huffs, rolls her eyes, "She's an idiot, Ron. Clearly, she doesn't know a good thing when she has it."

"A fucking moron," Kate concurs. She's hidden most of the evidence of her crying behind her makeup, but her eyes are still bloodshot, and Hermione's eyeing her as though she knows exactly what's going on. She probably does.

Ron blushes, but his smile is a little more genuine. "Thanks."

Harry claps him on the shoulder, squeezes supportively, and says, "You'll be all right, Ron. I'm sorry it didn't work out, though."

Ron shrugs. "It happens. I'll live. If this hangover doesn't kill me, anyway. God, I hurt."

They trudge through their respective shifts slowly, but eventually, they all clock out, and pile around a four-seater table for lunch. They're all quiet, lost in their own thoughts, eventually broken by Harry.

"So, I think I'll audition for the Glee Club."

Kate brightens. "You will?"

Harry shrugs. "Why not? I've already changed my availability to weekends only, and Heidi's agreed to cover my shifts for next week, so…"

"Not a lot of people will like it," Hermione warns him.

Harry nods. He's well aware of that fact. He just doesn't care enough to worry about the opinions of people he can hardly stand, anyway. The exceptions are his friends, of course, but other than a healthy amount of teasing, Harry doubts they'll pay his choice much attention. They've all got far more important things to concern themselves with. "They can suck it up, then. It's none of their business."

"Damn right," Ron concurs. He's gotten a lot of flack for joining the Chess Team.

"Suit yourself," Hermione shrugs, unruffled, and takes a healthy pull of her milkshake.

Kate starts babbling about how he won't regret it, and the rest of their lunch, although pleasant, is uneventful. They're all tired though, for different reasons, and disperse shortly after they've finished eating. Kate, on their way home, continues talking about the Glee Club, it's current members, their hopes for others to join them, and Harry listens absently, sure he's already beginning to regret his choice.

He can't bring himself to let his sister down, though - not when his decision has seen the most enthusiasm out of her all day - and he only prays no one else makes as much of a big deal about it than Kate. Harry doesn't think he'd be able to handle it, and he certainly doesn't want to find out.

One could only hope, anyway.


	59. Part 2: Chapter 6: Welcome to the Jungle

**Welcome to the Jungle**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter, or Glee. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Part Two: Sixteen**

 **Chapter Six: Welcome to the Jungle**

Part of Harry's international GCSE requirements involve electronically submitting worksheets each month for each of his chosen subjects. He's doing 10 of them, but fortunately, there's a lot of overlap with the subjects he's already studying in school. Not completely - Modern History and Legal Studies both focus on British History and British Law, respectively, and Welsh isn't likely to be taught anywhere outside of the UK - but nevertheless, the overlap _does_ exist, and it makes things infinitely easier.

Ultimately, Harry plans to obtain his GCSE's in Biology, Business, Chemistry, English Language, English Literature, Japanese, Modern History, Legal Studies, Maths, and Welsh. It's a tall order, obtaining them alongside successfully passing 10th Grade and what have you, but Harry's determined, stubborn, and thus far managing despite Ms Pillsbury's justifiable concern.

He's in the choir room, on his laptop and part-way through a worksheet for his IGCSE English Literature course, and he's alone. It's his study hall - the one he'd earned in place of PE after making it onto a varsity team - and the quiet has made him productive. He's already finished his homework for his WMHS English class, is well on his way to finishing his 5th of 10 IGCSE worksheets for that month, and it's the 14th of September. It's a Tuesday - Hermione's birthday had been the day before - and Harry has a Glee Club audition after school.

He's nervous. He's picked a song, practised it a few times over the last few days, received Kate's seal of approval, but there's nothing quite like performing for an audience.

Lost in his thoughts about everything that could go wrong during his audition, Harry's pulled from his reverie with the shrill screech of the last bell. He saves his progress, packs away his laptop with trembling hands, and contemplates an escape. It's not too late to back out, is it?

"Hello, can I help you?"

Harry glances towards the doorway. The Glee Club Coordinator stands there, the pushover Spanish teacher he's heard so much about, and Harry resigns himself to his fate.

"Ah, yeah, hi. My name's Harry. I'm here to audition for the Glee Club?"

"Really? That's fantastic!"

Harry forces a smile, feeling vaguely ill, and unpacks his guitar. He focuses on tuning the strings, too nervous to chit chat, and ignores the glances of curious Glee Club members as they file in. Kate's the last to arrive, almost as excited as Harry is anxious. She drops next to him on the lowest riser, and she can't shake the smile on her face.

"You ready for this?"

"No," Harry answers, "Why did I think this was a good idea?"

"You want to impress the bassist," Kate answers, "But also, university applications. Extra-curricular diversity, and all that. Which reminds me, Would you want to do the Duke of Edinburgh Award with me? I did some research, and we've pretty much got everything but the volunteering covered. I'm pretty sure it's doable, and I've been thinking about it."

"Ask me again after I've sat all my GCSE exams."

Harry has three rounds of them, in November,February, and May. They're due to take place in Columbus, at the British International School there, over an intensive week each interval. It means two exams per day, and Harry and his parents have already cleared it with Ms Pillsbury, and also with his teachers.

Harry's not remotely looking forward to them, but he'd realised some time ago that come what may, his future is in Britain, and he intends to prepare for it as best he can.

"Okay, Harry, whenever you're ready," Mr Schuester prompts them. Kate offers the man a sheepish grin, and Harry an encouraging, one-armed hug, before she skips over to a seat next to one of her fellow freshmen.

Tina, if Harry remembers correctly. She's dressed predominantly in black, with splashes of colour here and there, and although her clothing is loudly expressive in it's own way, the girl herself seems rather quiet. Very unlike Kate, in that regard, but Harry's sister speaks fondly of her, regardless.

Shaking himself, Harry nods to Mr Schuester, and idly strums his guitar. He takes a moment to gather himself, to breathe out his nerves, and then, without ado, he starts to sing U2's 'With Or Without You'. It's difficult, in that it's one of those songs he has to throw his entire being into, but he kills it, and his audience is impressed.

"I think it's a unanimous welcome," Mr Schuester informs him, "You were excellent."

Harry's smile is sheepish, "Thanks."

"Welcome to the Glee Club," Rachel Berry says, "It will be a pleasant change to have someone with male lead potential on the team. I do hope you are able to keep up with me."

As the rest of the established members roll their eyes, long-suffering, Artie Abrams mutters under his breath, "What am I, chopped liver?"

As Kate's fellow freshman, Tina, consoles their classmate, Harry glances at his sister. "You didn't say anything about being the male lead."

Kate shrugs, sheepish, and opens her arms wide, "Surprise?"

He pulls a face, unimpressed, but relents with a sigh. In for a penny, in for a pound, and all that. "I'll give it a go."

"We weren't really going to give you an option," Kate informs him frankly, "Kurt's a counter tenor, and Artie's good - awesome, even - but he still needs practise before he can balance out the female vocals. You've only sung by yourself before, right, Artie?"

"Right," Artie confirms.

"I guess the question is whether you can actually manage with the rest of us," Kurt Hummel opines. "Are you up for giving it a go?"

There's challenge in Hummel's eyes. He doesn't think Harry can manage an impromptu performance, and Harry's entirely prepared to prove him wrong.

Harry tilts his head, eyes his effeminate classmate thoughtfully, and queries, "What did you have in mind?"

Hummel's idea turns out to be a spontaneous rendition of Hall and Oates' 'You Make My Dreams Come True'. Abrams plays the guitar instrumental, Harry taps out the beat on his own guitar, and alongside Rachel, Harry takes the lead on vocals. The others harmonise, Abrams and Kate with solos in the second verse, and it turns out well.

Better than well, even.

"That was fantastic, you guys!" Mr Schuester claps, positively delighted, and addresses Harry, "I think your membership will do great things for this club, Harry."

"No pressure, or anything," Harry mutters, sardonic.

As Harry starts wondering if it's too late to back out, Hummel smirks, and addresses him, "Welcome to the New Directions."

-!- -#-

The thing is, a lot of his friends wouldn't give a shit about his choice to join the Glee Club. Cedric, Ethan, and the other seniors he's close with are too busy with their college applications to care about Glee Club and it's place on the WMHS social ladder.

Similarly, Katie, Cho, Leanne and Flora are too busy with SAT and/or ACT prep to think about something so inconsequential (to them) as Harry's extracurricular activities. Hermione, Mike, Matt, Ron, and Brittany aren't concerned enough about their own popularity to follow the crowd, and the same could be said about Dean, Seamus, Frankie, and the guys on the basketball team.

That, essentially, leaves Puck, Santana, and his teammates on the football team.

Harry doesn't bother with informing the football team. Most of them are upperclassmen, anyway, and he assumes - correctly - that they're in the same boat as their fellow Juniors and Seniors. He tells Puck and Santana though, via text, because they'll be pissed if they find out from anyone else, and Harry has no real interest in dealing with that sort of unnecessary drama.

Santana, predictably, is not impressed. She doesn't tell him to quit or anything, but she thinks he's an idiot, that there is a slushie facial in his future, that his popularity will take a nose dive in the face of his decision.

Puck, similarly, questions his sanity, but also his sexuality, whether or not he's been possessed, had a lobotomy, and then some, and by that evening, Puck's still not satisfied with Harry's answers. He's convinced Harry's choice was made in a moment of temporary insanity - Harry's half convinced it was, too - but either way, Puck's inquisition stopped being funny a while ago, so he tells his friend to get over it, and reluctantly returns to the homework that still awaits him.

As he does so, Frodo whines piteously. Sam lifts his head, pulled from his stupor, and Harry, unable to deny them, promises the two a walk after dinner. He's not spent a lot of time with them, of late - life's gotten rather hectic - but their sad puppy faces are impossible to refuse.

Frodo and Sam will love the walk, and if nothing else, it will allow Harry a break from his schoolwork, give him some time to clear his head, expend some of the restless energy from his afternoon spent doing homework, tuning out reruns of Futurama, and eating too many chocolate and salted caramel brownies.

Before then, however, he has homework that needs doing, a load of laundry that needs washing, carpets that require vacuuming, and only an hour until dinner.

Mercifully, it's not his turn to cook. His proactive parents have established a rotation now, to get Harry and Kate familiar and comfortable with cooking a variety of dishes independently, and although effective, Harry can't say he really appreciates it. It's his parents' house, however, and thus their rules, so Harry grins, bears it, and counts down the days until he can move out.

He loves his parents, unequivocally, unabashedly, undoubtedly, but that day can't arrive soon enough.


	60. Part 2: Chapter 7: Bad Day

**Welcome to the Jungle**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter, or Glee. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Part Two: Sixteen**

 **Chapter Seven: Bad Day**

Leo's been on something of a songwriting spree since Marlene's death. It's his emotional outlet, the same way Harry uses sketching, Kate uses piano, and Ursa uses photography. He's completed dozens of compositions since May, scrapped even more, and shared with Harry all of those he - for various reasons - believes Harry might perform well.

In that regard, Harry is skeptical, but he tries. He doesn't learn them all - he doesn't have the time - but he learns those that particularly resonate with him, records them, and sends them off to Leo to do with as he pleases.

The Thursday after he'd joined the New Directions, Harry's in the auditorium with Seamus, and they're busying themselves with brainstorming the guitar accompaniment for Leo's most recent composition. The vocals are done - courtesy of Leo - and they have time to kill before the other members of WMHS' Glee Club joins him. It's a fun, carefree way to pass the time, and Harry's surely going to regret it later, but for the moment, they're both enjoying themselves, playing guitar, shooting the breeze, killing time with good music and good company.

As they tentatively settle on a guitar arrangement they're both happy with, Seamus looks at him expectantly. "Well, are you going to give it a whirl, or…?"

Harry frowns, hesitant, but acquiesces with a sigh. He studies the lyrics again, strums his guitar once, and then starts the (possible) guitar introduction to Leo's newest song. Seamus taps out the beat, plays the baseline, and harmonises when he sees fit, and although it's rough, it turns out all right. Not great - Harry needs some more practise with the guitar accompaniment - but good enough that he's only marginally embarrassed when Daphne Greengrass, a number of her fellow orchestra members, and a couple of Harry's fellow Glee Club members wander into the auditorium throughout the song.

" _I lost my shoes last night, I don't know where I put my keys_

 _I was tired and fell asleep beneath an oak tree, I'd bet my mother's proud of me_

 _From each scar upon my knuckle and each graze upon my knee_

 _And all I know is I got a cab, then threw up upon his car seat_

 _He kicked me out, and then I walked in the rain_

 _I tell myself in every way I won't be doing this again, and tomorrow's a brand new day…_ "

"That was good," Seamus says when the song's come to an end, "You should stick with that accompaniment, I think. Who was your friend writing about, anyway?"

Harry shrugs, clueless. "No idea. He knows a lot of people, so it could be anyone. Thanks for helping me with it, though. I owe you one."

Seamus waves him off. "It's all right, mate. It was interesting; kind of makes me want to get serious about writing my own stuff, you know?"

Harry shrugs. He's been there, done that, and established that he hasn't got the talent for songwriting, but each to their own. "What's stopping you?"

"Nothing, I suppose," Seamus answers. He moves to pack up his guitar, and observes, "I guess I'd better take off. Don't want to crash the nude erections."

"New Directions, jackass," Harry punches him in the arm, and Seamus laughs, unapologetic, "You sure you don't want to join?"

"Hell no. I'm a one man act, and I don't think I can deal with a team name like 'New Directions'."

"I hear you," Harry grimaces. He can't really deal with it either, but at this point, he's made the commitment, and he'll at least stick it out until the end of the year. "If you change your mind though…"

Seamus nods his acknowledgement, shoulders the strap of his guitar case, and makes to leave. They knock fists before he does so, Harry thanks him for the help once more, and Seamus waves him off with a roll of his eyes. Then he leaves, and Harry is descended upon by Kate, Rachel, Mercedes, and Kurt.

"Is that one of Leo's?" Kate asks. She tries to get a glimpse of the printed music sheets, "It was good."

"Yeah, bit more upbeat than his usual stuff, of late," Harry confirms.

"Is Seamus Finnigan joining the New Directions?" Rachel questions him, "He has a reputation for recreational drug use, and I'm firmly of the opinion that the Glee Club should _not_ be associated with such debauchery."

"No, he's not joining the Glee Club," Harry dully replies. Rachel's like a more high-strung version of Hermione, albeit laser-focused on the Arts rather than Social Sciences, and after one practise session, her behaviour, attitude, and priorities leave a lot to be desired.

"It's too bad," Mercedes opines, "White boy's got talent, and we could definitely use the numbers."

Harry bites his tongue on the response that that 'White Boy' also has a name, and maybe she should use it. He can't be bothered with the drama that would follow, but honestly, he'd love to see whether or not Mercedes would appreciate being regularly addressed as 'Black Girl'. He doubts it.

"He's cute, too," Kate contributes. She and Colin are still together - closer than ever, even, if Kate is to be believed - but she's got eyes, and apparently a lot of his friends are rather attractive. "Are you _sure_ he's not interested in joining?"

"Pretty sure," Harry confirms. In the orchestra pit, the jazz band is busy setting up, chatting quietly among themselves. Daphne Greengrass is smiling, laughing with a short, curvy brunette by the name of Tracey Davis, and Harry looks away before she catches him out. It wouldn't be the first time, admittedly, but it would be no less embarrassing. "He's a solo artist, I guess."

Kate pouts theatrically. "Poo."

"You'll live."

In the orchestra pit, the tall, rail thin form of Theodore Nott wraps himself around Greengrass. He's a fellow sophomore, and a frightfully good musician - on par with Leo or Kate, if Harry's being honest - and if the smile on Greengrass' face is anything to go by, they're an item.

Harry turns away again, pretends not to notice the leaden weight that's settled itself against his chest, and says goodbye to any hopes of getting to know Daphne Greengrass better.

As he does so, he also makes the decision to attend Friday night's afterparty. He'd not intended to, originally - he has a lot of homework to stay on top of - but he has the sudden desire to get wasted, or to find a girl to share a bed with for the night - either or, really - and Ethan Summerby's parties are good for both.

"It's just annoying because we only need four more members to be eligible to compete," Kate explains. Harry's heard it all before, though - in the car, over the dinner table, between serving customers at work - and he doesn't want to hear it all again. He tunes her out, Kate realises soon thereafter, and punches him in the arm. "You're not even listening to me."

"Tell me something I don't already know, and _then_ I'll listen to you," Harry argues, scowling. He grabs her wrists before she can hit him again, and they tussle for a bit in their seats.

"Let me go, or I'll tell Mum."

"I'll tell her you hit me first."

They glare at each other for a moment, hazel on green, but it's long enough for their ire to fade, to realise how ridiculous they're both being, and for both of them to start laughing.

Kurt, perplexed after their display, frowns, and wonders aloud, "What just happened?"

Mr Schuester arrives before Kurt can get an answer. He brings with him Finn Hudson, who has just been manipulated into joining the club, more or less, and Harry's levity evaporates like smoke in the wind.

Not for the first time, and probably not for the last, Harry wonders if it's too late to quit.


	61. Part 2: Chapter 8: Last Night

**Welcome to the Jungle**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter, or Glee. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Part Two: Sixteen**

 **Chapter Eight: Last Night**

Harry didn't really plan it, but he wound up spending Friday night with Cho. They hadn't spent much time together, of late, busy with their own things, but they'd run into each other at Ethan's party, and by that point, they'd each been abandoned by their respective friends. She'd been a little down, because she'd seen Cedric and one of his Cheerio classmates getting up close and personal in the living room turned dance floor, and Harry had still been moping about the revelation of Daphne and the boyfriend that wasn't - isn't - him. As such, because misery loved company, drowning their sorrows together seemed only logical.

In the harsh light of day, as the alarm he'd set before the afterparty blares shrill from his phone, as Cho stirs naked beside him, sleep-mussed, disgruntled, and probably as hungover as Harry feels, his decisions the night prior certainly don't seem as logical. He's got the morning shift - he _always_ has the morning shift - and slogging through it with a hangover is not high on his priority list. Moreover, having sex with Cho is all well and good, but the issue of alcohol complicates things.

Would she remember what happened? Would she regret it, would she claim he'd taken advantage of her, and what about contraception? He remembered using a condom, but had he rolled it on properly, and they weren't foolproof, anyway. Was Cho on birth control, would he have to worry about anything a few weeks or months down the road (please, God, let there not be), would she expect more from him, would she hate his guts?

Head spinning with his thoughts, his stomach churning, and unable to shake the question of how Puck and Santana manage one-night-stands so effortlessly, Harry stumbles out of bed, gets dressed, and pockets his phone, wallet, and car keys. He dons his watch, thinks better of leaving without a word, and types out a text to Cho's phone. It reads:

 _Hey, Cho. Sorry to bail, but I've got work at seven. Give me a call if you've got questions about last night, or if you just want to talk. Hope you're not too hungover._

Her phone buzzes on the nightstand, but Cho's already fallen back to sleep, and she doesn't stir.

Harry hesitates, but his mum won't be impressed if he's late for work, and Harry leaves his friend to her dreams. He drives home, races through a shower and breakfast, and then takes off again.

He clocks in at the Steam House with only minutes to spare, and his mother - watching from her office door - wears a disapproving frown on her face. She can probably see the hangover all over him, but Harry avoids her gaze, and prays she forgets about it by the time he makes it home.

Would that he was so lucky.

-!- -#-

"You've been drinking," James says. It's not a question, and he doesn't even sound angry about it. It's just a statement, accompanied by a carefully impassive expression, "Do you want to explain to me why? Better yet, while you're at it, you can tell me why you thought to get behind a wheel with alcohol still in your system, and in doing so, chose to endanger not only _your_ life, but everyone else's on the road, too."

 _That_ his father sounds angry about, and Harry can't bring himself to look up from his sketchbook. He rolls his pencil between his fingers instead, stares blankly at the jungle scene he's spent the last hour drawing, and comes up with no reasonable excuse.

He could have called either of his parents, asked for a lift. They wouldn't have been pissed about the alcohol - disappointed, maybe - but they wouldn't have kicked up a fuss. At least, not a huge one.

He could have walked home, or caught a bus, or a taxi. Ethan's isn't overly far. He could have asked Kate to swap shifts with him.

He could have done any number of things, really.

"No?" James nods briefly, "Your car keys, Henry. You're clearly not ready for the responsibility that comes with a license."

"But-"

"You got by just fine without one," James interrupts his protest, "You'll do just fine without it for a month. No driving, no parties, no going out at all. You go to school, you go to training and games and work, and then you come home, where your mother and I will have a weekly list of chores for you to complete. And also, no drinking, Henry. Is that understood?"

Harry grinds his teeth. "Fine. Whatever."

Harry grabs his keys from the jeans he'd discarded on his bedroom floor, pulls his house key from the key ring, and then begrudgingly hands over the rest of them. "Here. Can you go now?"

"Curb the attitude, son. You brought this on yourself."

'Don't I fucking know it?' he irately thinks to himself, but he stays silent, and James wordlessly leaves the room. He shuts the door behind him, and Harry slumps back in his seat, drained.

Although Santana will be pissed if he doesn't have his car back by homecoming, Harry finds that losing his car privileges is only a mild inconvenience. At present, he's got a lot more important things to worry about. He's treading water with his school work - he's even managed to get a little ahead of schedule with his IGCSE's - but football training's gotten more intensive as the play-offs approach, and Harry has begun to seriously question whether the Glee Club is a complication he really needs in his life.

To stress him out even more, Harry hasn't heard from Cho, and he's not sure whether or not he should call her, if they should let sleeping dogs lie, if she's expecting _him_ to call, or what. Also, the WMHS rumour mill is notoriously and inconveniently efficient, and Harry's not sure if he should expect a confrontation with Cedric; or from anyone else, for that matter.

Essentially, it's all a mess, and Harry's not sure where to start with sorting everything. Homework seems the least complicated, but it feels as though he's been wading in worksheets, readings, and short essays up to his armpits of late, and as such, homework is somehow even more unappealing than it usually is.

He exhales with a tired sigh, picks up his pencil, turns to a blank page in his sketchbook, and starts to draw again. This, at least, is something that is easy, mindless, cathartic, and Harry loses himself in the lines, the shading, the picture of Cardigan Castle unfolding beneath his hands.

And then his phone rings.

The Caller ID reads Cho Chang. There is a moment, as the sight of her name registers, wherein Harry almost wishes that along with his car, his father had confiscated his phone, too.

Almost, being the operative word.

 **Author's Note:** One of my reviewers said high school drama really does write itself. I had to laugh, because it's so accurate, like I can't even explain. That aside, I also forgot to mention the song lyrics in the last chapter are Ed Sheeran's, from a song called 'Bibia Be Ye Ye''. I don't own, of course.

Anyway, thanks for reading and reviewing. 61 chapters and counting, 200 reviews, and almost a hundred thousand words. I can't believe we've only just reached Season 1 canon! Thanks for all your support. Until next time, -t.


	62. Part 2: Chapter 9: Over My Head

**Welcome to the Jungle**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter, or Glee. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Part Two: Sixteen**

 **Chapter Nine: Over My Head**

After a moment of hesitation, Harry answers. "Hi."

"Hi," Cho echoes. A long stretch of silence follows. "How was your day?"

"Uh, I'm grounded, so it could have been better," Harry admits. He tries to be flippant about it, but he's still kind of pissed off - mostly at himself, but also at his parents, naturally - and he's pretty sure he fails. "How was yours? Did you get home all right?"

"Yeah, Marietta picked me up. How was work?"

They go on like that for a while, making small talk while they both avoid the elephant along the phone line. Eventually, though, the suspense gets to him, and Harry firms his resolve.

"So, we slept together last night."

Cho's silence seems to last an age. Eventually, though, she admits, sounding awkward and hesitant, "Yeah, we did."

"Are… Are you okay with that?" Harry's got no idea what he's saying, really. He's pulling this all out of thin air, because Hermione, for once, had been at a loss, and Ron was too busy agonising over whether or not it would be appropriate to get to know his ex-girlfriend's best friend's identical twin sister, whether or not doing so would be considered a rebound, what kind of car he could buy with the savings he's accumulated over the last couple of years, and whether or not the car in question would be a decent chick magnet.

"Um, I guess? I mean, I had fun, but I don't think I'd want to do it again. Is that… I'm sorry if that offends you. I just… After last year, I'm sort of terrified of, you know, it happening again. I'm also just not ready to date again, and like I said, I'm too anxious to, you know…"

"I'm not offended," Harry assures her.

Truly, he's not. If this entire episode has taught him anything, it's that he can't deal with one night stands. As is, he's not sure how he managed with Marie over the summer. Maybe because she's on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean, or perhaps because it wasn't so much a one night stand as it was a week of fun in the sun, or maybe it's something else entirely.

Either way, Cho's admission is a relief. He'd been concerned that she would expect or want more from him, and quite frankly, Harry doesn't have the emotional energy for that. He's still licking his Daphne Greengrass inflicted wounds, so to speak, and he's not ready to start dating anyone; not even Cho whom, despite everything, is still a friend.

"Is that something we need to worry about?" Harry asks hesitantly. He honestly hates himself for doing it - Cho has enough baggage as far as pregnancy is concerned, for the love of God - but he'd be irresponsible not to. He's pretty sure he's been careless enough for one weekend, and as far as these things go, Harry knows better than to leave things to his hopes and prayers. "I mean, I know we used protection, but…"

Cho exhales roughly, but her voice is steady when she answers, "I've been on the pill since May, and I'm religious about taking it, so it should be fine. I also took the Plan B pill this morning, so I think I've done everything possible to prevent it."

"That's… Good to hear?"

Cho gives a short, sharp laugh, "Don't worry. I know what you mean. Neither of us need that right now."

Harry exhales, and honestly, it feels like he can breathe again. "No, we don't. So… Are we good?"

"Yeah," Cho assures him, "We're good."

They don't linger on the phone for much longer. It's a bit too awkward, heavy with the awareness of what they'd done the night before, and Harry doesn't know about Cho, but he's already exhausted, and he doesn't have it in him to slog through a conversation like that. They might be 'good', but they'd still slept together, and it would take a bit of time to get back to the way things were.

Assuming it ever will, that is.

Rather than dwell on his phone call, and on the possibility that he'd lose a friend or two because of his actions the night before, Harry makes a start on his English essay. It's his mid-term project, due at the beginning of November, and Harry, quite frankly, doesn't have the time to procrastinate with it. It also serves as a good distraction from the other things on his mind, and by the time Mike calls him, Harry's completed half of what is turning out to be a very detailed outline.

"Hey, what's up?" Harry greets. He and Mike don't often call each other. Usually, they text, or chat on IM, or in person, but it's not unheard of, so Harry isn't concerned.

Turns out he should have been, though.

"Dude, you fucked my cousin?"

"Your cousin?" Harry frowns, perplexed and startled, "What?"

Mike is flatfooted on the other end of the line. "You slept with Cho, didn't you? That's what everyone's saying."

Great, that's exactly what he needs to hear; that everyone knows what he and Cho did last night.

"Cho's your cousin?"

"You didn't know?"

"Was I supposed to?"

"I thought everyone knew," Mike replies, "But never mind that. Did you sleep with her, or what?"

"In all fairness, I didn't know she's your cousin, but yes, Cho and I spent the night together." Harry doesn't bother lying. Mike can kick ass like no one else (their age) he knows, and Harry figures honesty might spare him the worst of Mike's temper.

He can dream, anyway.

"Dude!" Mike groans on the other end of the line, "Not cool, man. What the hell? Are you two together then, or…?"

"No," Harry denies, "We're not together. Why do you want to know, anyway?"

"It's fucking weird, man. My cousin, Jesus."

Harry rolls his eyes. He's pretty sure Mike's overreacting, but the only (first) cousin he's got is an estranged, overweight brute in England, so what would he know?

"I don't know what you want me to say," Harry admits, "I mean we were drunk, and it just happened…"

"I don't want to know," Mike interjects.

"Then why the hell are you calling me?" Harry exclaims. He slumps back in his desk chair, agitated, and already over this conversation, and the day in it's entirety. With less attitude, though, he asks, "What do you want, Mike?"

Mike doesn't reply for a while. Eventually, though, he asks, "Are you okay, man?"

"I'm fine," Harry answers, "Why wouldn't I be?"

Actually, he's pretty sure he's the farthest from 'fine' he's ever been, but he's not about to admit that. He's not even sure why he feels the way he does - things could certainly be a lot worse - but he can't shake it for the life of him.

"I just thought I'd ask. You just… Things are a bit crazy, aren't they?"

Harry sweeps a hand through his hair, and he can feel the exhaustion in his bones. "Yeah, I guess they are. Nothing I can't handle, though."

Mike is dubious. "If you say so, man. If you need help, though…"

If he needs help, he's certainly not going to ask Mike, who is probably even busier than Harry himself. He appreciates the gesture, though.

"Yeah, man, thanks. Appreciate it."

"No problem," Mike replies. He doesn't dwell on it, and instead changes the subject, "So, what's Glee Club like?"

Harry groans his displeasure. Apparently, his suffering isn't over.


	63. Part 2: Chapter 10: We Are Okay

**Welcome to the Jungle**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter, or Glee. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Part Two: Sixteen**

 **Chapter Ten: We Are Okay**

Harry tries to avoid any mention of Friday night, but it's practically impossible. In the morning, before classes, Fred, George, and Lee laugh, and shake their heads, and Mike, in a display of theatrics Harry wouldn't have expected from him, keeps on wincing, or cringing, or shuddering every time he is reminded of it. During homeroom, Puck thumps him on the back, as though it is an accomplishment to be acknowledged and appreciated, and Santana won't stop smirking at him every time they make eye contact in the halls.

And then there is Cedric, of course, whom Harry approaches during lunch time. To clear the air, or to get the drama over with, or _something_. Harry's not sure, really, but whatever it is, the suspense is killing him.

"Hey," Harry greets the Senior. He props himself against the bank of lockers, stares absently at the passing students - most of them are Cedric's classmates, too busy with their own lives to pay attention to Harry's drama - and flounders for something else to say. As he does so, Cedric sighs, inexplicably weary, and if nothing else, Harry doesn't have to enlighten his friend. "I guess you heard?"

"It's hard not to," Cedric grimaces, chagrined, and shuts his locker. He shoulders his backpack, but he doesn't move to walk away. He doesn't move to punch Harry, either, but he's not exactly pleased to see him. "Ethan did a check of the house when the party wound down. He told me that night."

"And you're… Okay with it?"

Cedric shrugs, shoves his hands into the pockets of his letterman jacket, and avoids Harry's gaze. "I won't lie: It's kind of weird, dude."

It's more than the fact Cedric and Cho are exes, and Harry knows enough to realise it. It's the fact that at one point, Cho had been pregnant with Cedric's baby. They - or maybe just Cho, Harry isn't too sure on the specifics - had chosen to terminate the pregnancy, but experiences like that leave their mark. Cho and Cedric would have that history between them for the rest of their lives.

Harry, who'd seen them both fall apart because of the baby they would never meet, had just become a footnote in that history, and not for a reason he's exactly proud of.

There's no taking back what he and Cho have done, however. It had happened, they can't change it, and all they can do is pick up the pieces, continue moving forward, get on with their lives.

That's easier said than done, however.

"We were drunk. It just… Happened."

Cedric winces. He doesn't want to hear it. "I don't need an explanation, Harry. Cho and I broke up in February. She can be with whoever she wants."

"We're not… She and I aren't together, Cedric."

"Okay?" Cedric nods, but he seems uncertain, "You don't need to tell me this, man. It's none of my business."

Harry cards a hand through his hair, exhaling, and he has no idea what to say. "I guess I just wanted to make sure you weren't pissed at me, or something."

"Like I said, it's kind of weird," Cedric shrugs, "But no, I'm not pissed. You're good people, so as long as you don't mess her around - Cho doesn't need that shit - we're fine."

"I'm not - I won't. I can't be bothered with mind games. Besides, she and I talked. We're not… Neither of us really want anything, you know?"

They'd spoken briefly before school that morning, too. Neither of them had changed their minds, and although it was still awkward, Cho had found it in herself to laugh at a lame, shitty joke he'd said - he's already forgotten whatever it was, now - and it's progress. It'll still be some time before they're back to normal, but at the very least, he's not about to lose a friend over something they'd both done while drunk.

It's about all Harry can ask for in that regard.

Cedric blinks, nonplused, and shrugs. He doesn't know what to say, it seems - probably as awkward as Harry feels - and the approach of Ethan is a relief.

"Dudes," Ethan acknowledges, eyeing them both uncertainly, "Everything cool here?"

"Yeah," Harry confirms. He drops his crossed arms, smiles wanly, and moves to leave, "I was just heading to the choir room. Mandatory team lunch, or something."

Ethan nods his acknowledgement. "Good luck, man. Hope it isn't shit."

"Yeah, you and me both." Harry glances at Cedric, apologetic, and still guilty, still awkward, "I'll see you guys around, yeah?"

"Yeah, man," Cedric nods, and manages a wry smile of his own, "Where else will we be?"

Harry huffs an inaudible laugh, waves at them, and makes his way to the choir room. He ignores the looks sent his way, avoids eye contact with any of his peers, pretends not to hear the whispers, and reaches the choir room at the same time as Kate.

"You know, it really sucks to hear rumours of my brother's sex life," Kate greets him.

"Yeah, it really sucks to be the subject of those rumours," Harry scowls, disgruntled, and drops onto one of the risers, "You should try it sometime."

Kate grimaces at the thought. "I'll pass, thanks."

"Wise," Harry acknowledges. He produces his bagged lunch from his backpack, Kate follows his lead, and Harry listens absently as his sister makes small talk with the others already gathered. It's everyone bar Finn and Mr Schuester, and they're all curious about the mandatory and unexpected team meeting.

"What about you, Potter?" Hummel addresses him. He seems nervous, but simultaneously defiant - as though he expects Harry to be pissed off that he's being addressed, but speaking to him anyway - and honestly, Harry has no idea what to do with that. "Any ideas?"

"As my darling sister keeps on reminding me," Kate scrunches up her face at the address, and Harry spares an unapologetic smile for her, "We need more members to be eligible for sectionals, so probably something to do with recruitment, but I don't know. I'm probably wrong."

"It makes sense," Mercedes interjects. She wipes her hands free of grease, drains her lemonade, and frowns at the door, "It'd be nice if they were on time, though. I missed an Association meeting for this."

"Association?" Kate queries, curious.

"African American Association," Mercedes explains, and adds proudly, "We have 13 members."

Sardonically, Harry considers the likelihood that Lee, Matt, and Dean would be pleased by her absence. She's apparently been trawling for a boyfriend among the Association members since she'd joined up the year prior. As a result, the guys don't care for her much. Matt and Dean, in particular, go out of their way to avoid her where, when, and if ever possible.

"Oh, yeah," Kate smacks herself on the forehead, "Nat told me about that."

Nat - or Natalie MacDonald - is one of Kate's friends from middle school. Along with Luna Lovegood, Ginny Weasley, and Demelza Robbins, they'd been inseparable.

Not so much these days, though. Ginny, Natalie, and Demelza have joined the cross country team, and they spend most of the time with their other teammates. Kate spends a lot of her time with Colin, or with Artie and Tina, or with the friends she's made from the Steam House. Luna, it seems, spends a lot of time alone, and although Harry's tried to keep her from the worst of it, she's become a favourite target of the Freshman and JV football and hockey teams.

Harry still can't figure out how their tight-knit friendship had deteriorated so quickly.

"You still talk to her?" Harry queries idly, "I thought none of you were friends anymore."

"Just because we don't hang out, doesn't mean we're not friends," Kate argues, defensive, "We talk all the time on Facebook."

"Right," Harry mutters. He shouldn't have asked.

Before Kate can delve into an in-depth explanation of what's going on in her friends' lives, Mr Schuester and Finn finally make their appearance.

Apparently, Schue expected Finn to forget about the meeting and thus went looking for him. Hence, their tardiness.

Harry's not overly impressed.

"Why did you want to see us, Mr Schue?" Rachel prods.

"A couple of reasons," Mr Schuester makes himself comfortable in the teacher's swivel chair, "First, to let you know we're all going on a little field trip on Saturday afternoon. Carmel High's glee club, Vocal Adrenaline, is hosting a showcase, and I thought it would not only be an excellent bonding opportunity for all of us, but also, I thought it would give us a chance to get a handle on the competition. Apparently, they're the team to beat at regionals this year."

Finn looks as though he's juts been handed a death sentence. The JV football team has training that afternoon, and Coach Tanaka won't be thrilled about losing his quarterback. That's not even getting into what the team itself will think.

Admittedly, Harry's not pleased by the prospect of an excursion to Akron, either, but it's not the worst thing ever. He can get someone to take on his shift at the Steam House, he can work on his homework before, after, to, and from, he can probably put up with Finn Hudson for a few hours, and because he's grounded, it's not as though Harry will be able to do anything else.

The only thing is…

"Do you think Mum and Dad will give me my car back for this?"

 **Author's Note:** Um… is there a song about a guy who slept with his friend's ex?

Happy holidays, guys and gals. I still haven't got my presents for, like, 4/6 of my family members, so feeling a little stressed, but here, enjoy. Until next time, whenever that may be, -t.


	64. Part 2: Chapter 11: It's My Life

**Welcome to the Jungle**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter, or Glee. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Part Two: Sixteen**

 **Chapter Eleven: It's My Life**

It's a few days before the Glee Club field trip, while he's elbows deep in homework, essays, and class projects, when Harry decides to drop Computer Science, Critical Thinking, and Health at the end of the current school year. Japanese, he's still not sure about - only two Foreign Language credits are required for him to graduate - but more than that would look good on his university applications. His parents will blow a gasket, either way, but the prospect of continuing Japanese is tempting.

Minimising the damage, and all.

In truth, it makes him vaguely queasy, knowing they won't be pleased with his decision. At the end of the day, though, it's Harry's life. His next two years will be packed with his SAT's, his A Levels, his WMHS syllabus, work, and everything else, and it's impractical to weigh himself down with classes that are, in the grand scheme of things, unnecessary for his future.

Unwilling to give himself time to second-guess his decision, Harry types out an email to Ms Pillsbury to inform her of the change in his plan regarding his Junior and Senior academic course load. He explains his reasoning as well, and once he's done, he reads it through, briefly considers courtesy copying in his parents, thinks better of it, and then sends it off with a relieved sigh. It's a load off, knowing he'll have more time to commit to the subjects he _will_ be taking, but it's still only September, and he's still got the rest of 10th grade and his IGCSE's to get through before he can really appreciate it.

With that in mind, Harry returns his attention to his English paper. It's yet another essay, a literary analysis of Charles Dickens' 'David Copperfield', and he's already partway through his first draft. Mike and Hermione have already finished theirs - apparently they actually get some studying done during their study dates, who knew? - and are each in the midst of the editing process.

It's no surprise, of course. Mike and Hermione are consummate overachievers, and although they're each as busy as busy gets, school is extremely important to them both. It's probably why they work so well as a couple, but Harry doesn't care to think about it much. Their relationship is none of his business, after all.

All the same, it rather grates to realise he could be at the same point as them, could be that much closer to having one less assessment piece to worry about. If only he was faster, if only he was better at micro-managing his time, if only he was better and identifying notable themes, plot points, quotes. If only…

Outside the library, the school bell blares. It's the first bell of the morning, and Harry has seven minutes to make it to homeroom.

He sighs, resigned, disappointed, and a little relieved. He packs away his things, too, shoulders his backpack, and slowly meanders his way towards the library doors.

Rachel Berry falls into step with him before he reaches them.

"Good morning, Henry," she greets him, and Harry blinks at her, a little bemused. He hardly ever hears anyone outside of his family call him Henry. Beyond that, though, he can't quite make sense of why Rachel's approached him. He doesn't actively dislike her, but they're not exactly friends. "How are you today?"

"Morning, Rachel," Harry greets her mildly. He holds the door open for her, and Rachel steps through the doorway with a charmed smile on her face. He steps through himself, the door shuts behind them, and Harry continues on his way. Rachel continues beside him, and Harry slows his stride to make it easier for her. "I'm fine, thank you. How are you?"

"I'm well, thank you for asking," Rachel smiles, brushes a lock of hair behind an ear, and informs him, "I'd hoped to speak with you regarding the travel arrangements for Saturday's excursion to Akron."

"Why?"

"Well, as you know, Mr Schuester expects us to make our own way there. Unfortunately, not everyone in the Glee Club can drive, or has access to a car. The only people who do, in fact, are you, Kurt, and myself."

Harry nods his understanding. His parents had given him the okay to drive himself and Kate to and from Akron - no layovers, detours, or delays - and excepting a search for directions on Google Maps, he hadn't thought much about it since.

"Assuming you're driving your sister, that leaves four of us unaccounted for."

Harry frowns. "I'm legally allowed to drive one person that isn't directly related to me, but I don't know, I don't think my parents would be okay with that. Or anyone else's, for that matter. As is, Mum and Dad aren't exactly happy I'll be driving to a place over two hours away."

In fact, they're rather disgruntled by the administrative neglect (such as it is). So much so that Lily plans to write a strongly worded letter to Mr Schuester, to the McKinley High administration, and to the school board regarding the issue, and Harry is mortified by the prospect.

Kate is, too, and she'd spent the evening prior trying to talk their mother out of it. Lily Potter is stubborn though, and once her redhead temper is ignited, there's no going back from it. As such, Kate's attempt hadn't been successful, and the siblings can only dread the fallout from their peers.

"Nor are mine," Rachel acknowledges. Her eyebrows are furrowed, and there's a displeased frown on her face, "We can _not_ pass up the opportunity to take stock of our competition, however."

"No arguments here, Rachel." Harry holds the door open to the homeroom they share, and Rachel passes through the doorway with yet another smile. He continues, cognisant of the scrutiny of their classmates, "Anyway, I think the plan is for Mr Schue and Ms Pillsbury to split up everyone who needs a lift between their cars. There'd be eight seats between them, so…"

"I assumed as much, as well," Rachel says. Once more, she finger combs a lock of hair behind her ear, straightens out her plaid skirt, and sits primly in a seat near the front of the class, "I wanted to ascertain whether or not you'd be available to drive anyone else. I can't imagine our fellow team members would exactly be thrilled to travel with Ms Pillsbury or Mr Schuester, regardless of how pleasant they are."

Harry shrugs, " _I_ don't mind. If my parents say 'no' though, then I won't. I'm on thin ice as is, and I don't want to be grounded any longer than I have to be."

It'd be fine if he could sneak out, but his parents are exceedingly diligent with the security alarm. It's on every night, easy to monitor via their phones.

Harry could risk it, of course, but he'd get caught, and He'd be stuck doing the yard work until the end of time. As such, although it's tempting, a few hours of freedom aren't worth the hassle.

"That's understandable," Rachel acknowledges, "I'll ensure the others are informed. Thank you for humouring me."

"It's fine," Harry smiles briefly, "Have a nice day, Rachel. I'll see you around, I guess."

He makes his way to his usual seat, behind Mike, and ignores their inquisitive glances as he retrieves the materials he would need for class. His friends aren't the only people staring though - most of his classmates are, actually - and the weight of their attention is stifling.

"What was that about, Harry?" Hermione prods. She's too curious not to, "I didn't know you were friendly with Rachel."

"We were just sorting out something for Glee Club," Harry explains, nonchalant. He doesn't clarify his relationship - such as it is - with Rachel Berry, however, and Hermione doesn't pry further.

Mike doesn't pry at all. He's stopped being weird about the Cho thing, but generally speaking, he's not really one to stick his nose in where it isn't wanted. He's curious, of course - like Hermione, he always is, about everything - but he'll rarely ever ask about the serious stuff. He's observant though, with a preference for listening over talking, and an uncanny, infuriating ability to hear what isn't ever said.

"How is that going?" Hermione queries, "Are you getting a lot of flack for it?"

"Mostly from Karofsky and his lot,"Harry replies, "But I don't hang out with them, so it's no big deal. Santana and Puck are a bit weird about it - Brittany actually asked if she could join, too - and everyone else just… Doesn't give a shit."

As their teacher strides through one of the classroom doors, Hermione hums her acknowledgement. "I guess I'm not surprised."

Their teacher calls them to order before Harry can find out what, exactly, Hermione is unsurprised about. They each turn their attention to the woman in question, and around them, conversation peters off until all Harry can hear is the hushed whispers of a pair of cheerleaders in the back of the room, a round of stifled laughter, and the harsh rasp of a pencil in a pencil sharpener.

To this accompaniment, the teacher proceeds with her regular morning roll call, Harry slumps in his seat, and resigns himself to yet another long, monotonous day in McKinley High.

In that regard, he is not disappointed.

-!- -#-

Kate cooks dinner that night. It's an attempt at paella that turns out well, and she preens under everyone else's compliments. Conversation eventually turns to other things, though - work, school, Harry's sports, Kate's dance, their Martial Arts - and any discussion of Britain, of Sirius and Remus' work there, of the continued - if somewhat diminished - threat to Charles' and Dorea's wellbeing is carefully avoided.

In a lull in the conversation between his parents, Harry informs them of the choice he'd made regarding his classes. Kate, sitting across from him, stills momentarily, and then silently continues to eat. She carefully avoids eye contact though - with anyone - and presumably, she's praying she can be anywhere else.

Harry, meanwhile, continues as though he hasn't just summarily overturned his parents' plans for his education, and stubbornly refuses to bow his head. He's not ashamed of his choice, he doesn't regret it in the slightest, and he's not going to let either of his parents guilt him into changing his mind.

James sets down his cutlery, props his elbows on the table, and clasps his hands in an arch over his plate. Lily, meanwhile, pats around her mouth with a serviette, sips a glass of water, and then sighs.

All of this happens in only a matter of moments, but for Harry, they feel like the longest of his life.

"Can you explain to us _why_?"

Harry swallows his mouthful of food, gulps down a mouthful of water, and then does so. He's rehearsed his speech dozens of times since that morning, mapped out all of his reasons and considered the best way to explain them, and he does so now, clear, concise, and entirely unapologetic.

When he is finished, his parents share one of those long, inscrutable looks - one of those silent conversations couples always seem capable of exchanging - and then they nod, pick up their cutlery, and continue their meals where they'd left off.

As he does so, James acknowledges, "If that's what you think is best for you, Harry, then so be it."

…

…

…

Harry is dumbfounded. He's floored, astound, completely flabbergasted.

In all of his imaginings, he'd not expected a response so utterly, completely anticlimactic.

Neither had Kate, it seems.

"Seriously?" She's incredulous. "Is that _all_ you're going to say?"

"Your brother is old enough to make his own decisions regarding the future," Lily reasons patiently. "He's clearly thought about it, considered the ramifications, weighed the costs and benefits. After all of that, how can we possibly begrudge his choice?"

"We're not tyrants, Katherine," James contributes. There's a mild rebuke in his tone, and Kate ducks her head, embarrassed.

"I know _that_ ," she insists, "I'm just… You made as sign up for so many of the subjects available."

"That's because we want you to have as many opportunities available to you as possible," Lily explains, "But there's a point where we won't be able to make your decisions for you."

After that, the remainder of dinner is rather subdued. James and Lily talk between themselves, in low, subdued murmurs, and Kate picks listlessly at her eats methodically, clears his plate and drains his water, but his mind is elsewhere; on his Year 11 and 12 subject selection, on the prospect of IGCSE's, of his future SAT's, ACT's, and A Levels. He contemplates the prospect of university, of the RAF, of returning to Britain, and he longs, poignantly, to be a child again.

It's not the first time, and Harry knows - without a doubt - it won't be the last.

 **Author's Note:** Hey, readers. Happy holidays, whatever you celebrate. Hope you enjoy the update. Until next time, -t.


	65. Part 2: Chapter 12: Why Worry?

**Welcome to the Jungle**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter, or Glee. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Part Two: Sixteen**

 **Chapter Twelve: Why Worry?**

Lily sends her 'strongly worded letter' to the McKinley High administration on Thursday evening. It's received on Friday morning, and the content sends the administration in question scrambling to provide appropriate transport for the Glee Club field trip that same weekend.

Incidentally, by that afternoon, the 'strongly worded letter' also lands Harry and Kate on Coach Sylvester's shit list, earns them an immense amount of heckling from their more moronic classmates, and also provides them with a frankly embarrassing amount of gratitude from an inexplicably relieved Mr Schuester.

Suffice to say, they're both very ready for the entire debacle to be over, and quite frankly, that moment can't arrive soon enough.

Harry boards the Glee Club's hastily provided bus with this thought in mind, makes himself comfortable in a seat near the back of the 12 seater, and slips in his headphones to discourage conversation. Most of the others are wide-eyed and animated, enthusiastically discussing how they'd pass the time to Akron, what they'd find at Carmel High, whether or not in-car karaoke can be considered a valid pastime. The exceptions are Kate and Finn, who are as quiet as Harry - if for different reasons - and despite their evident reluctance, Mr Schuester watches them all with a fond, indulgent smile.

With a roll of his eyes at the teacher's obliviousness, Harry produces his laptop, determined to make use of the two hour trip ahead of him. He settles into his seat as best he can, sets his iPod to play the Kooks on loop, and then makes a reluctant start on his Chemistry Report. It won't be nearly as interesting as Puck's, who'd somehow managed to burn off his eyebrows in the practical they're supposed to be discussing, but if all goes well, it will concisely and articulately address everything it needs to.

Harry would be content with that much, anyway.

Mercifully, he's finished by the time they reach Carmel High. It's busy, the parking lot and school building milling with families, friends, students and staff, and it becomes obvious quickly that Carmel High's show choir - Vocal Adrenaline - is received very differently to their own.

It stings, in a way, to recognise what the New Directions could be, but Harry tries not to dwell on it. He excuses himself to the bathroom instead, and when he returns, he joins the queue for a snack before Vocal Adrenaline's show.

"I don't understand how you can possibly read in a moving car," Kurt informs him. He stands in front of Harry, arms crossed over his chest, and there's a critical frown on his face. His attention is on the snack stand though, and presumably, he's not thrilled by the offerings.

"He's been able to do it for forever," Kate grouses, appearing out of nowhere. She wedges herself between the two sophomores, props her chin on one of Kurt's shoulders, and adds, "I bet it's because of the glasses."

Kurt eyes them both sceptically, and then addresses Harry, "You wear glasses?"

Harry sighs, exasperated, and rolls his eyes for good measure. "I usually wear contacts these days, but yes, I sometimes wear glasses. Mostly just at home."

"Huh," Kurt shakes his head, "I can't picture it."

"You'll just have to come over sometime," Kate opines, "See it for yourself."

Kurt smirks. "Perhaps I will."

In front of them, Rachel and Finn seem to share an excruciatingly awkward exchange near the counter. Harry can't hear them, mind, but their body language is telling, and Harry can't decide if he ought to cringe at Rachel's poorly disguised interest, or laugh at Finn's very obvious discomfort.

"I don't know what she sees in him," Kate grimaces, "He's an idiot, and he's not even that good looking."

"He's nice though," Kurt counters. He's blushing, and the tips of his ears are tinged red. "He doesn't give us too much crap, you know? Most of the time it's just like, he's going along with everything because everyone expects it of him, you know?"

Kate pulls a face, "Is that why he slept with someone else's girlfriend?"

"Yeah, that someone else is right here, and doesn't appreciate you bringing that shit up, Katherine."

"Sorry, Harry," Kate grimaces apologetically. She means it, too, her expression chagrined and sincere, but Harry's still irked, and his unimpressed expression indicates as much.

It's not that he's still hurt over Quinn and Finn's actions, because honestly, he's not. He's moved on with his life, moved on with other people. He has goals, hopes and dreams and plans that don't involve Quinn Fabray, and mostly, he's content. He'll never forgive them, of course, and he'll certainly never forget what they'd done, but he's done letting them - and their decisions - dictate his own.

Nevertheless, he doesn't exactly appreciate having his dirty laundry aired for all and sundry to be witness to, ancient history or not. He's a private person by nature, he doesn't care to be the topic of gossip and what have you, and he certainly doesn't want to perpetuate that same gossip, himself.

Kurt's grimace is simultaneous with Kate's. "I forgot about that."

There's something oddly jarring about that revelation.

Harry had known, abstractly, that the fallout of he and Quinn's breakup wouldn't leave an impact on many others outside of themselves and their mutual friends. To realise that to most at McKinley High, it had just become another footnote in the 2008 - 2009 school year, though? It's… It's something else, and it leaves him oddly speechless.

How can something that had impacted him so intrinsically - something that had fractured his sense of trust so pivotally - just be forgotten like that?

It just… It just does not compute.

"Everyone makes mistakes?" Kurt tries.

Harry scoffs derisively. "And yet, I still haven't gotten my fucking apology."

Kurt winces, and shrugs. There isn't anything else he can say, really, and they continue along in the queue in silence. Kate's on her phone, texting Colin, and Kurt's lost in thought, but they each manage to purchase and pay for their snacks without incident, and rejoin their group shortly thereafter.

"Is everyone ready to head inside?" Mr Schuester asks. He receives a series of affirmatives, some more enthusiastic than others, and they follow the gathered crowd into Carmel High's auditorium.

It's a show none of them will soon forget.

-!- -#-

Before they leave Carmel High, the New Directions take the opportunity to use the facilities.

They loiter out the front when they're done, discouraged, lost in thought, and impatient to hit the road in turns, and it's a very different group from earlier. More subdued, doubting themselves and their ability to pull off a performance such as Vocal Adrenaline's, and Mr Schuester, swamped by similar concerns, makes no attempt to bolster their spirits.

On one hand, it's understandable: Schue is a teacher, not a coach, and motivational speeches aren't in his job description. On the other, however, it's somewhat disappointing. Not because Harry necessarily _expects_ one, but because the New Directions could certainly use hearing one.

"What's taking Finn so long?" Rachel raises Mr Schuester's arm in order to study his watch, frowning, "He's been gone a while."

"I guess those pretzels didn't agree with him," Kurt glibly replies.

"Seems like it," Harry concurs. Rachel pulls a face at the insinuation, but she doesn't ask anyone to go check on him. She continues her analysis of Vocal Adrenaline instead, penning her remembered observations in a glittery pink notebook she'd produced from her bag.

Harry, meanwhile, produces one of the novels covered in his IGCSE English Literature course - 'Animal Farm' by George Orwell - and reads carefully. He's already read it for leisure, a while ago now, but this time, he looks for themes, significant plot points, the underlying social commentary the novel is known for. Kate sits beside him, listening to her iPod, and around them, the Glee Club grows restless.

"Oh my God, did he drown in the toilet or something?" Kurt grouses.

"Probably got lost on the way back," Kate uncharitably opines.

"I h-hope h-he's o-okay," Tina frets. Evidently, she's too kind for her own good.

As it turns out, Finn's unharmed. He's covered in paint though, courtesy of the paintball guns used to douse him, and he's sulking. It's part betrayal, part guilt, part embarrassment, and Harry doesn't care one iota for his pity party. He laughs, unsurprised to learn it's Puck, Karofsky, and a few of the guys' teammates responsible for the kaleidoscope of colours painting Finn from the shoulders down. He has no idea what Finn's done to warrant the attack, admittedly - it's not because of Finn's membership in Glee, because then Harry would have been targeted, too - but whatever it is, the results have just made his day.

And if that makes Harry a bad person, then so be it.

-!- -#-

"Has Leo told you much about what's going on with Ursa?"

Harry turns away from the window, and from the cornfields passing them by. It's approaching sundown, they'd left Akron a half hour earlier, and the bus is quiet.

"No. Should he have?"

Kate shrugs. "I'm just worried about her. Have you seen her Facebook recently?"

Ursa's profile photos had begun to show an increasing amount of skin since June. Simultaneously, she seemed to have embraced black clothes and eyeliner, the darker shades of her makeup palettes, and the backdrops of parties Ursa had once disdained.

Harry finds it all kind of weird, but people change, and mostly, he just figures it's Ursa's way of expressing herself after Marlene's death. She doesn't seem sad, anyway - actually, she seems more confident than she's ever been - and that aside, Harry doesn't want to crowd her. He can't imagine it's easy for them, losing their mum, and if Ursa's change in wardrobe makes her happy, who is he to judge?

Besides all of that though, Santana's profile photos are very similar, as are a number of their classmates'. As such, he hasn't felt any particular need for concern. Why would he, when it seems like it's what everyone else is doing?

"I'm sure she's fine," Harry offers Kate an assuring smile, "If something was really wrong, Sirius would notice."

Kate nods, comforted by the thought. "Right. I guess I'm just overreacting. I worry about them, you know?"

"Yeah," Harry acknowledges, sighing, and turns his gaze back towards the window, "Me too."

Not about Ursa, specifically, but the Blacks in general. They're family, they've recently gone through a tragedy Harry can't begin to comprehend, and he and Kate's concern is justifiable.

"They'll be okay though," he continues, and Harry's not sure which of them he's trying to convince, "They have to be."

Harry's not sure he can handle anything less.

-!- -#-

 **Author's Note:** Hey, readers. Happy New Year! Hope it's everything you want it to be. Thanks for reading. It's hard to believe this story's reached 100,000 words. Here's to many more. Until next time, -t.


	66. Part 2: Chapter 13: Leaving

**Welcome to the Jungle**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Glee. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Part Two: Sixteen**

 **Chapter Thirteen: Leaving**

Santana hands him a swatch of colour before classes on Monday morning, and informs him that he'd better have a matching tie for Homecoming. He's already got a suit - Lily had dragged him to Columbus the day before to replace the dress clothes he'd outgrown - but they'd opted to forego purchasing a tie for the very purpose of coordinating colours. They have four weeks left until the Homecoming Weekend, and between Lily and Kate, Harry's confident he'll have a suitable tie in a suitable shade of green, and he doesn't dwell on it. He hangs out with Puck instead, slumped against their lockers, passing time and shooting the breeze. Mike's in the library, Matt's got an African American Association meeting, and apparently, Finn's joined Quinn's Chastity Club. They meet every week, on Monday morning and Thursday afternoon, and the irony (re: hypocrisy) is hysterical.

"So, Dad's moving here," Puck says conversationally.

Puck's dad, Mr Dubois, is an accountant. He'd been based out of Marseille last Harry had heard. They're close though - not that Puck would ever admit it - and Harry can't say he's overly surprised by the news. He hasn't thought about it, mind, and neither had he expected it, but he'd be more surprised if Mr Dubois were moving to Russia, or England, or really, anywhere else but Lima.

"Yeah?" Harry acknowledges. Kate passes by them in the hallway, pulls a face, and then laughs as Harry returns it. "That's good, right?"

Puck shrugs. "Bébé's excited."

"When does he get here?"

"January," Puck replies, "We're going to spend winter break there, and he'll come back with us. Hey, did you like our artwork on Saturday?"

Harry laughs. "It made my day. Where'd you get the paintball guns?"

"Walmart. Where else?"

"Why'd you do it, though?"

Puck rolled his eyes. "Dude lied to me. Said he had to help his mom out because she had some shit going on with her prostate. Chicks don't even have prostates!"

"That's…" Harry flounders, shakes his head, and turns to gather the things he would need for class, "I don't even know, man."

Puck huffs his agreement. "Yeah, I know. He's a fucking idiot, but what's new? Have you got your car back yet?"

"I wish," Harry grouses. He shoulders his backpack, shuts the door of his locker, and approaches a nearby water fountain to fill his water bottle, "I'm not getting it back until homecoming."

Puck winces. "That blows, man."

"Yeah, tell me about it."

Their conversation turns to other things - movies, video games, their Chemistry papers - but eventually, the school bell resounds through the crowded hallways, and they split to their respective classrooms to start yet another day at McKinley High.

-!- -#-

At lunch, Mr Schuester calls for another Glee Club meeting. It's a bit irksome, because it's the second emergency meeting in as many weeks, but nevertheless, Harry trudges to the choir room, and joins Kate on the risers. She's already partway through her lunch, listening absently to Kurt and Mercedes chatter animatedly about that month's edition of Vogue, but she spares him a light kick to the ankle, a brief grin, and a commiserating, long-suffering roll of her hazel eyes.

On such short notice, she's not pleased to be there, either, but barring Harry and Finn, she seems to be the only one.

"What's going on?" He greets her. He unpacks the lunch Lily had prepared for him - a couple of stuffed sandwiches on Turkish bread, an apple and an orange, a slice of brownie, and a couple of homemade muesli bars - and chows down with relish. He's starving.

Kate shrugs. "No idea. Wish Schue would hurry up and tell us, though."

The rest of the Glee Club trickles in, Rachel and Finn, Tina and Artie, and Mr Schuester claps his hands together to grab everyone's attention. In turn, the team falls expectantly silent, and Mr Schuester offers them all a small, sad smile."Hey guys, sorry to disrupt your lunch again. I just wanted to get you all together to let you know I'm resigning from McKinley High."

There's a brief, uncertain silence. Kurt crosses his arms over his chest, makes eye contact with Mercedes, and then Kate, and then Harry. He frowns, too, and then glares at his feet. Kate stares glumly at the remnants of her lunch, and around them, the rest of the club is similarly sullen.

Eventually, the silence is broken by Artie. His eyes look unbelievably wide behind his glasses. "You're leaving us? When?"

Mr Schuester rocks back on his heels, crosses his arms over his chest, and grips both of his elbows. "Well, I've given my two weeks notice, but I promise; I'm going to find you guys a great replacement before I go."

"Is this 'cause those Carmel kids were so good?" Mercedes asks, "Because we can work harder."

Mr Schuester shakes his head, no, but Mercedes looks hardly appeased. Mr Schuester looks upset, too, though, and Harry realises - uncomfortably - how much the Glee Club actually means to the man.

It's sobering in a way, to realise how much Schue's invested in his students, and Harry avoids his gaze, oddly ashamed.

"This isn't fair, Mr Schuester," Rachel protests. She stomps one of her feet, and drops gracelessly into one of the desk chairs. Her skirt flutters around her thighs as she does so, and Harry's gaze, unintentionally, lingers on her tanned, toned legs for a beat too long. Mercifully, no one notices. "We can't do this without you."

Mr Schuester looks like his heart is breaking with every word said, with every moment of eye contact, with every frown he sees. And through it all, Finn looks around, awkward and uncertain, and then asks, during a lull in conversation, "So does this mean I don't have to be in the club anymore, or…?"

Harry rolls his eyes so hard he's sure he sees his optic nerves, and Kate mutters scathing things under her breath that only he and Kurt are close enough to hear. There are unimpressed glances sent Finn's way - Mercedes, Artie, Tina - and even Mr Schuester spares the JV quarterback a disappointed frown. It doesn't last, though, and quickly, Mr Schuester garners their attention once more.

"This isn't about you guys. Being an adult is about having to make difficult choices. It's not like high school: Sometimes you have to give up the things that you love. One day, you guys are going to grow up and understand that. I have loved being your teacher."

The underlying message being, of course, that as an adult, it's something he has to give up.

And somehow, despite Harry's general antipathy regarding Mr Schuester, the reality leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.

-!- -#-

 **Author's Note:** Hey, guys and gals. Apologies for the long wait. Been preoccupied with reading books, mostly. I think I'm up to the 28th of the new year. Anyway, thanks for reading. Leave a review? Until next time, -t.


	67. Part 2: Chapter 14: I'm So Tired

**Welcome to the Jungle**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter, or Glee. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Part Two: Sixteen**

 **Chapter Fourteen: I'm So Tired**

 _With a relieved sigh, Harry submits the last of his IGCSE worksheets for September, closes his laptop, and slumps over it, drained. He's in the choir room again, it's his Study Hall in place of gym class, and there's supposed to be a Glee Club meeting after school lets out. With Mr Schuester's resignation imminent, Harry has no idea if it's actually taking place, but Kate insists they show up - just in case - and since the alternatives are working on even more homework, or working on the chores awaiting him at home, Harry can't bring himself to refuse._

 _He tunes out then - not quite dozing, but almost - and startles into alertness when the last bell rings. He rubs at his face, bleary-eyed, and packs away his laptop with a yawn. He produces his New Directions binder - courtesy of Kate, and already full of sheet music for the various songs they've covered - as well as his guitar, and busies himself with tuning it while he awaits the arrival of everyone else._

" _Why are you always here early?" Kurt Hummel greets him, "Do you skip your last class every day, or something?"_

" _Study Hall," Harry replies, "Mrs Burgman doesn't really care where we spend it so long as we sign in at some point. I work better when I'm alone, and since no one's ever here…"_

" _Convenient."_

" _I can't complain," Harry concurs with a shrug._

 _Kurt wanders off to get comfortable, slumped on the lowest riser, and leant against the wall beside him. Harry plays an idle tune, and the minutes drift by. Artie and Tina arrive, Mercedes and Rachel soon thereafter. Kate floats in, a stupid smile on her face, and Harry needles her about it._

" _What are you smiling about?"_

 _Kate laughs. "Nothing."_

" _Doesn't look like nothing."_

 _Kate ignores him though. She climbs to the top of the risers, crosses her legs beneath her, and occupies herself with her phone. She's still smiling, and presumably, Colin's done something to make her day._

 _Harry briefly contemplates following her, pestering and the like, but he opts not to - quite frankly, the energy for a fight is beyond him - and instead, he returns his attention to his guitar, and to the most recent song he's been learning. 'This Town' by Joe Purdy isn't ever going to be a mainstream hit, but learning the guitar accompaniment has been a pleasant, entertaining respite from his homework. He's not yet convinced posting covers online is a worthwhile venture - though Kate and Leo both seem to think it is - but he's built up a repertoire if he ever_ does _decide to, and if nothing else, the internet will always be there._

" _I don't think Finn's going to show up," Artie breaks the companionable silence._

" _Neither do I," Kate concurs, "We should get started."_

" _With what?" Kurt asks sardonically._

 _Rachel clears her throat importantly. "I've taken the liberty of preparing selection of songs we could work on."_

" _Let me guess," Kurt opines dully, "They all feature you as the lead."_

" _On the contrary," Rachel counters, "I've compiled a collection of pieces that would suit everyone."_

" _We'll have to compare notes," Kate says to Rachel, "I've done that too. I'll be interested in seeing what you've come up with."_

" _We can certainly do that," Rachel acquiesces brightly, "But perhaps when we leave this afternoon?"_

" _Of course," Kate agrees, "But we still need something to do now. Any suggestions, anyone?"_

" _Are there any group pieces in those binders of yours?" Harry asks Kate and Rachel, "We could probably work on one of those?"_

 _Without protests from anyone else, Kate and Rachel produce their respective lists, and take turns going through them. A number are vetoed by the rest of them, and there's a surprising amount of overlap, but 10 minutes later, they've all agreed on a song to work on, and Harry's been sent off to photocopy the sheet music for Paramore's 'Born For This'. As he goes, Kate and Artie are already in discussion regarding how to strip back the instrumentals, the others discussing the vocal arrangements, and Harry leaves them to it, grateful that, comparatively, he's been given the easy job._

 _-!- -#-_

 _Harry doesn't realise Kate's made plans with Rachel until his outspoken classmate is inside his house, introducing herself to he and Kate's bemused parents, curiously taking in his family's home._

 _Harry, dressed in sweats and an old T-shirt and wearing his glasses, greets her awkwardly, and retreats into the kitchen in order to clean up the mess from dinner. He'd cooked - it's his night to - but he's also grounded, which means he has to clean up, as well. Frodo and Sam loiter underfoot, in search of scraps, Loki watches him haughtily from the dining table, and Harry plays the Red Hot Chilli Peppers through his iPod headphones in order to tune out everyone - and everything - else._

 _When he eventually makes his way downstairs, he's startled, then, to find Kate and Rachel in the entertainment area outside his bedroom, listening to music, working on homework, and chatting amicably between themselves._

" _Hey," he greets them both, nonplused. He eyes the dividing wall that separates the entertainment area from his bedroom door, considers the offered escape, and then thinks better of it. His mother would have his head if he was rude to their guests. "What's up?"_

" _Nothing," Kate replies, "I invited Rachel over to talk about our ideas for Glee Club, and we've just been hanging out. Your phone's been going off, by the way."_

 _Harry shuffles into his bedroom to retrieve his phone, and meanders back to the girls as he takes in the messages. Santana, asking him if he'll purchase her a corsage for Homecoming, Puck, bitching out their Pre-Calculus homework, Ron, regretting his life choices. Mike's had a fight with Hermione about his mom, Hermione's pissed off about the overbearing mother in question, Katie's just broken up with Oliver, and has invited him to a small gathering that weekend in order to commemorate the occasion with good food, good drinks, and good company._

 _Harry regretfully declines the latter, commiserates with Puck, individually asks Mike and Hermione if they're okay. He reminds Ron he's an idiot for considering rebounding with Padma Patil, and then informs Santana - with no small degree of satisfaction - that it's already been pre-ordered._

" _Everything okay?" Kate queries._

" _Fine," Harry replies. Hermione can tell Kate about her issues with Mrs Chang herself - if she hasn't already - and everything else is minor, or doesn't concern people Kate knows well enough to care about._

" _Rachel and I are meeting up tomorrow morning to figure out some choreography for 'Born For This'. Want to join us?"_

" _Not particularly," Harry denies, and they both deflate, and Harry tries not to feel bad about disappointing them. As is, he has enough on his plate without adding the responsibility of Glee Club choreography to his priorities, and Kate knows it. He's complained to her often enough about his workload, after all. "I was actually planning on heading to the library. Get some work done…"_

 _Kate sighs, but she doesn't try to persuade him to change his mind. She invites him to join their study session instead, Harry acquiesces, and he works through his Pre-Calculus homework to the accompaniment of the girls' chatter, and Nora Jones filtering quietly from the surround sound speakers._

 _It's not entirely awful, but Harry is nonetheless relieved when Rachel starts to gather up her things in order to leave. It's not that he hasn't enjoyed her company - actually, she's quite pleasant when she's not trying to prove herself to everyone in the room - but he's tired - when is he ever not, these days? - and rather drained from socialising all day. All e wants to do is sleep - or at the very least, spend some time alone - and he can't do that while there are guests in his home._

 _Guests that are peers of his, in any case._

" _Thank you for inviting me over," Rachel says to Kate, "And thank you for your company as well, Henry."_

 _He offers her a tired smile, as Kate insists Rachel is welcome anytime. She leaves, and once the headlights of her car have disappeared around the bend, Harry retreats inside, back downstairs, and into his bedroom. He closes his door, strips out of his clothes, and collapses into bed._

 _The next thing he knows, it's morning._

 _-!- -#-_

 _ **Author's Note:**_ _I'm supposed to be writing an essay re: Lord Byron, but it's boring me to tears, so here, have an update. Sorry for the wait. The muse, you know how it goes… Until next time, -t._


	68. Part 2: Chapter 15: Honestly

**Welcome to the Jungle**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter, or Glee. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Part Two: Sixteen**

 **Chapter Fifteen: Honestly**

In some respects, Harry's sort of glad he's grounded. The lack of car is a wrench, and the extra chores are an annoyance, but the lack of social life affords him more time to stay on top - even get ahead in some subjects - of his schoolwork, and he's grateful.

On another note, he's also managed not to spend any of his Steam House earnings beyond what he needs to pay for his snacks and toiletries, and it's sort of nice having the extra cash available if he needs it. His savings had taken a hit with the acquisition of his car - of course they had - but he's deposited the money he hasn't had to spend on fuel into his savings account, and despite everything, it actually feels good.

Like he's accomplished something. Minor, admittedly, but nevertheless, the feeling is present, and Harry basks in it.

Unfortunately, however, the feeling doesn't last.

"We need the band," Kate informs Harry, "We're not going to find an instrumental recording of 'Born For This' with the adjustments we've made."

The school band's obligation to the Glee Club had disappeared with Mr Schuester's directorship, and the New Directions had been informed not to expect them at any more Thursday rehearsals until such a time as circumstances changed. It was a disheartening blow to team morale, but an unsurprising one.

"And what do you want me to do about it?" Harry asks Kate, occupied by the contents of his locker. It's early on Wednesday morning, their dad had just dropped them off, and Harry's got plans to visit the library until homeroom.

"I thought it might be a good opportunity for you to talk to the bassist," Kate explains, slumped against Puck's locker, "What's her name, anyway? I don't think I've actually talked to her."

"Daphne Greengrass," Harry replies, "And why would me talking to her do anything?"

"I'm not sure it will, actually," Kate replies honestly, "But I figure it gives you a good reason to approach her. Am I a genius, or what?"

Harry rolls his eyes. He actually doesn't think her idea is particularly inspired, and he says as much. "That sounds like a waste of my time."

Kate sighs, exasperated. "Do you want to talk to her, or not?"

"And, pray tell, what the hell should I say? 'Hey, I know you and your band probably think you could be doing something loads better with your time than put up with our drama, but I think you're pretty great, so could you guys help us out anyway?'"

Kate laughs despite herself, and Harry rolls his eyes again. He shuts his locker, twists the dial to ensure it's locked, and pulls the strap of his backpack higher on his shoulder. He turns towards the library, Kate falls into step beside him, and Harry reluctantly takes up the conversation where they'd left off.

"I think Artie should approach them, to be honest. I think he's friends with a few of them? I've seen him talking to them, anyway."

Kate nods. "Yeah, that was my original thought, too, but then I thought, my lame brother really needs to get his act together, so…"

Harry pulls a face. "Bite me."

Kate grins, unabashed and unapologetic.

"Don't you have somewhere else to be?"

Kate gives a put-upon sigh. "So ungrateful."

He makes a rude gesture with his hand, and Kate, laughingly, excuses herself. As it happens, she's due to meet Rachel in the auditorium - to plan out some basic choreography for 'Born For This' and Harry is relieved to see her go. He has other - more important - things to worry about than how to get the attention of a girl who is, ultimately, unavailable.

It's a nice thought, though.

-!- -#-

As a 'Welcome back to sanity' present, the idiots on the JV team's had originally planned to haul Artie Abrams to the top of the bleachers, to release his chair to roll _down_ them. Puck had talked them into locking him in a porta-loo instead, to be turned upside down at their leisure - which involved a far smaller chance of serious injury and/or death - and Finn Hudson - for once in his life - did the right thing and intervened.

It's a shock to learn about - via Mike, Matt, and Puck, who are simultaneously furious and horrified. Even Puck, who'd been there from the beginning, but who still can't believe what they'd originally intended.

the revelation leaves Harry momentarily speechless.

"Are they fucking dumb?" He wonders, "Is there a working brain between them, at all? What the fuck possessed them to think that was a good idea? Were they _trying_ to kill him?"

None of them have answers, and they part ways for their own homes soon thereafter, perturbed and thoughtful.

By the time he makes it home, Harry's still pissed off about it. Not at Hudson for once, but for the neanderthal morons who thought it would be remotely acceptable to torment and traumatise - torture? - Artie like that, and he's unsurprised to find Kate there, also bristling. NO doubt, she's heard from Artie himself, and she wants blood.

"Did you know what they were planning?" Kate greets him, accusatory and angry.

"Give me some credit," Harry answers, offended and angry in turn, "I just found out."

"What, they were all laughing about it in the locker room?" Kate sneers.

"Bugger off, Kate," Harry moves to sidestep her, but she steps in his way, "You think I find it remotely funny? You think I was fucking laughing?"

Their parents, who've wondered in during their confrontation, move to intervene.

"You two want to explain what's going on?" James asks. He looks braced to step between them at the first indication of escalation, but upon sight of the adults, both teens settle.

Harry, briefly, considers lying, brushing them off, omitting the truth. The thought only lasts a moment though, because Artie could have died, because the bullying issue at McKinley High is out of control, because he's tired of having to remind the narrow-minded jackasses on the hockey teams that his sister its off limits with regards to slushie facials and what have you. Something has to give, and he's not sure what.

His parents though… They may just have a solution, and if that means breaking the silence around what actually goes on at McKinley High, then so be it.

"There's this freshman, Artie. He's in a wheelchair," Harry starts, "He could have been killed today."

And as Harry explains, he wishes he was lying.


End file.
